Young Poets

[heslopian]

Sex and death are what occupy us.
Our sadness is the sadness of the young.
We do not think with bitterness.
Bitterness is accrued like experience.
(Maybe they are one and the same.)
What we have is straightforward anger.
Melancholia like a disease.
A rash with no root staining the flesh.
The skin pillow our mother's pinched.
I'm not a poet because I'm depressed.
Nor am I depressed because I write verse.
Life is a series of coincidences.
Many among us will abandon our pens.
Transcend the arrogance of youth.
(It was only a way of filling the time.)
Others will balance talent and content.
Work and write and die in happiness.
Maybe achieve that bitter quality.
Earn the right to be world weary.
A few will never escape the sadness.
Like those who stay thirteen forever.
Now and again they'll still produce.
Subsisting on a routine of medication.
Until they leave as delayed suicides.
I hope I'll belong to the second section.
But I would make do with the first.

I fear that I am destined for the third.
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