the cars up on the lake
I’m only joking
there is no lake
only a street
and on this street
we live alone
I have a room
I keep a picture
by my bed
of the war
I need to talk and not with my mouth
I need to feel and not with my felt
I need some security
fuck
my youth is over
the ending is coming
all the stars are burning out
not growing
but idiots with guitars are strumming
I am one of them
out of tune since yesterday
as if it was the 1800s
and
as much as I would like to be in love
I am not
punk is dead
and my best friend says
“oh well, let’s fuck”
and
I just, you know, puke – throw up
what’s more important -
first kiss or last?
you have to know these things nowadays
because
it will not end well
and that is how we are taught
latch-key mall rat from the ’80s or not
I wrote a melody once
in an elevator at 6 a.m. for booze
and prospects
I got scars and civil war artifacts
and clues
bar napkins stuffed into my pockets
scratched into them like they were arms
and I was a cutter with terrible blues
from blue wars

The poem Blue Wars by Ryan Adams from his book, Infinity Blues. (Good stuff!) Buy it here

Tags: Blue wars, Infinity Blues, ryan adams