Birth, she gets all the glory
Stuffs her fat face with cake
While her modest sister Death
Gets all the airtime
Of a TV-movie credit roll
(For the last belabored breath
Drawn much faster than
A seed from womb!)
Alas, expiration kindles pain
In her distracted audience
Unfairly, I might add-
(You didn’t read the credits!)
Concept crafted by hand
Specifically by adults,
For the innocence of childhood
Knows pain as a scraped knee
Forgotten at grown-up’s “All better!”
(Affirmation from apes!)
The children smile in their deaths
While the worn-skinned around them mourn-
(Selfish!)
Yes, we weave intricate designs
Accenting with our own blood
Bolster with psychobabble bollocks
The true passage
To adulthood
Is adopted torment!
Nurtured, (aww), personified
Worn like a ball gown
Twirl, twirl!
My life is harder than yours
Na-na-na-na-boo-boo,
And you don’t understand!
I will wear this pain
Like a perfume you can’t ignore
So with each transcendence
Toward a most-questioned oblivion
(One which we don’t appreciate)
Our melancholy lollygag
Along the strange bridges
That bring us closer to
“Understanding”
(Ha! As futile a thing
As remorse or decision)
Lest we retire
To unadulterated joy
(For shame!)
Or a hedonistic self-absorption
(We don’t blame you)
For extremes are our medium
Grow into a rotten pair of shoes
Or walk barefoot on coals
Because the innocence is gone
You have no choice, so,
Onward, ho!
Oh, beautiful adulthood
With her sickening complexities
Another wave of wisdom,
Gag!
This gossamer enlightenment,
She begs the question, Why?
And that bitch never answers!
So we carry up our newfound articles
Baggage smarts
Overpacked for this trip, eh?
Look at me, everybody,
I transcend!
Maturity and righteousness
Are mine for the exploit!
Yes, you snowball of scars, you,
We know this graduation,
In the moment of knighting,
Feels much like demotion-
But come now, on with the show,
There are credits to roll,
So, stunning guinea pig of fate, you,
Take up thy trophy!
But not before thy staff,
Thy trusty tool of onward ho,
You trusted fool of fortune, you!
Here, in the factory,
The roundtable of limbic plotting
We will convince you that Death is a curse
And laugh over lattes
At your most-amusing fumble
Of this gracious, loaded gift.