rosepoems

Our decade is floating upward
toward a precipitous cloud
encouraging the worship of wisdom
spilling from the fingers of intangible spectators,
who, again and again,
proclaim that the expanse of time
before death, before thirty
even, should be filled with experiences
from a shiny checklist, floating
on a flashing screen
guaranteed to render you more fulfilled
and sculpt your life journey to match
expectations of apathetic crowds,
those digital souls with hands ready to lend
affirmative praise to each picture posted
that fulfills the pre-defined checklist
of necessary accomplishments
and stringent guidelines of precisely
what it takes
to live a perfect life.

Seven stamps in your passport, at least,
before you become real, and old, and settled.
Skydiving naked, is a must
in order to truly live
you must break all the rules, as well
and simultaneously become
successful, noteworthy, wealthy.
New York on New Years, gambling in Vegas
skiing in the Rockies, sailing on the Gulf Coast
must all be done within the next five years,
at least, to ensure no regrets.
Don’t you want to be happy?

Expectations from an anonymous author
behind the guise of a piece of glass
becomes the Bible for the 20-something
dreamer, wishing to see, and hope, and do,
but what happened
to that dog-eared piece of lined paper
scrawled when you were seventeen
in a blue notebook, amongst science notes
and doodles of clouds, the cumulus kind,
a list that was carefully composed
before the world became enamored
with digital scripts of how best to live
when you were able to dream, entirely
in your own mind
of all the wonderful things you would do
someday, that would give you
your own version,
of a perfect life.