Synthwasteland
growing up when we did
raised
by grandparents too tired
to do the whole dance again
ill equipped for the outside
inside generation with dual
imaginations fueled by the
deep green hollows and moss
lined streams in the shade
of an unforgiving sun
with the growing infinite space
access through CRT monitors
and 14.4 mbs modems
where we could tinker with code
and hardware
like our fathers before us
leaned over and down into hoods
doing whatever they did
those long hours to the engines
our future was a black and pink
neon sky with a blood orange sun
illuminating an endless road
leading to some new place
but something went wrong somewhere
and here we are
with less than our forefathers
pretending that we’re all just fine
sending our kids to school
staring at thier backs
as they walk away
knowing that it might be
the
very
last
time
we see them alive
no one I know around here
got thier burning hot summer
with a promise threaded tight
by a group of friends
doomed to split with age
the cards fell a different way
and none of us learned much
except that our parents
would never be like those
we watched on television
some of us have made it this far
thinking that if we try something new
that the story will change
knowing full well
that no matter what
the odds were never in our favor
and the ending is always the same
short, bad, and without dignity
6 thoughts on "Synthwasteland"
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Applause. I love how this one hurts. I love how you’ve threaded together such vivid imagery from across generations and wove us right into that narrative. That is some seriously rich pain.
Thank you very much for the comment. Rich pain. I like the description.
You are so right, Amy, this one hurts in so many ways. Epic. I’ll need to revisit again.
I was worried I was being too moody.
I think it’s the perfect amount of moody
This poem produces a wide variety of emotion by generating the
different frequencies that vibrate through the generations of Appalachia