somehow
hippies are the only
thing that
came out of the
60s and 70s
i think
and
the whole country
and the whole
world
was changed
by the entirety of what happened
and now groups
LGBTQ+ get to see that light, too
which is covered
by the media
and by ourselves.
there is something about
free love
and something about freedom
and something
we can't know
about the way feelings
sidewind
into certain bends, which
we can't quite help
but seeing them freeze there,
we who were only born
like i am
20 and 30 years later, looking
for the same things.
i guess i tried
being a hippy
cuz i saw them on tv
and imagined the love
and heard the stories.
is any drug
not a gateway?
is any history
not actually spanned
across our very skin?
now i remember
I'm dying everyway everyday
and people
seem to use this
hate instead of love,
and we yell and scream
I can't even hear the words,
and if they're telling stories?
if they're yelling for me?
I can only imagine
how hurt everyone else is,
besides me.
I guess
it's called narcissism,
and
the key
is beyond me,
but not
thrown away;
I guess
it's no matter
what i say or feel or think
about this world,
and
that makes the poetry
sad.
my parents were hippies!
God love them.
hippies are the only
thing that
came out of the
60s and 70s
i think
and
the whole country
and the whole
world
was changed
by the entirety of what happened
and now groups
LGBTQ+ get to see that light, too
which is covered
by the media
and by ourselves.
there is something about
free love
and something about freedom
and something
we can't know
about the way feelings
sidewind
into certain bends, which
we can't quite help
but seeing them freeze there,
we who were only born
like i am
20 and 30 years later, looking
for the same things.
i guess i tried
being a hippy
cuz i saw them on tv
and imagined the love
and heard the stories.
is any drug
not a gateway?
is any history
not actually spanned
across our very skin?
now i remember
I'm dying everyway everyday
and people
seem to use this
hate instead of love,
and we yell and scream
I can't even hear the words,
and if they're telling stories?
if they're yelling for me?
I can only imagine
how hurt everyone else is,
besides me.
I guess
it's called narcissism,
and
the key
is beyond me,
but not
thrown away;
I guess
it's no matter
what i say or feel or think
about this world,
and
that makes the poetry
sad.
my parents were hippies!
God love them.