sometimes I have this conflict
about rock n roll
whether its real
or some subconscious escapism
of my angsty soul
i think of the summer
when I rode bikes down alley ways to see a band in a shed
and everyone was smoking up on music
the sweaty grin of the fourteen year old kid
reborn out of his first mosh pit
trip
he stands there with his striped shirt
that he got for christmas last year
hanging on his arm
is the girl
who hands out
dollarama sparkles
on your third eye
we all had sparkles
draped down our cheekbones
smiling at each others
black market tie dye
i wrote
sharpie after sharpie
of admittance into
this dark space
structured on pure teen angst
we bashed into each other
cutting up our lips
on spiked bracelets
and
scarring our necks
with flowered chokers
all of us wanted to be
the real rockers
like we saw on album covers
and woodstock memorabilia
never quite knowing how many
greened out nights
or
acidic meltdowns
on our mom's couch
would get us
there
sometimes we climb trees
screaming like
lou reed
or
I'll sit in my bed
and burn incense
and pretend
my dad
was
neil young
this is a sweet poem of the light memories
the real poem
I can't share
its etched in
the floor of that shed
when you broke your leg
because the music
moved you
outside your body
and
it hurts.
