I stopped posting poems out of fear of copyright laws, and having my work plaigerized, but I haven't been published in a while, so who's going to steal my stuff anyway...
This one is rather new, and hopefully moving.
Modern Music (Title subject to change)
By Andrew Moravick
The beat of this generation is irregular:
A metaphorical heart murmur,
An anxiety induced palpitation,
A necessary puff off an inhaler
Before singing a cough strained song
Written while high on whatever
We could buy on weekly allowances.
The overture was hopeful,
With sweet melodies of what could be,
But soon silenced by blaring confusion,
And mechanical choruses programmed
For profits and expectations.
Each voice tries to sing alone,
Tries to sing in harmony,
Tries to sing coherently,
Before that voice dies quietly
In a soft, frustrated moan
Amongst others fated for the same.
The epic symphonies of our grandparents,
The pointed impassioned oldies our parents,
Gentle background music still echoing
In faintly remembered melodies,
Yet unincorporated nevertheless.
Ours is a mix of powerful pulsing rhythms,
Flattened by fickle lines,
Loud impassioned yells,
Screaming for nothing but to be heard,
Gentle, enchanting ditties,
Made with more math than magic,
Lonely, low income laments
That turn to high-profit whoo-ees,
Songs against conformity
Sung in uniforms of black,
And more and more,
With just one understood undertone:
The unity in our confusion.
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