An Assortment Of Words

Joy Ride

In my few and exhausting years,
I have come to the premature acceptance
That all choices are motiveless
And all consequences inevitable,
And that most millennials are
Becoming of an early death
Devoid of meaning or tragedy,
Constructed within definitive emotions
And distinguished social rules
That subdue the superficial subconscious
And designate divinity to the back bus seats,
The outbreak of a new violent wave
And the drowning of sentimental values
In gluttonous gas tanks thats propel us forward,
Chasing the moon outside the window,
Tracing the skyline with our hands,
And talking all the while of
Egotistical ex boyfriends
And concerned recollection of a one time drug run,
All in the back of a two door fiat,
Ecstatic with youth and mellowed by age,
A balanced realisation of comfort and concern,
Trying to impress one another
With anxious anecdotes and bored, purposeless insights,
Denouncing fake practitioners and praising low brow lattes,
That seep warmth through cold palms,
And promise that not all joy is concentrated,
And no good choices are conscious.