Young Man
youth in his favor with young women in his reach
a whole world ahead of him
but the silly son of a bitch doesn’t even know it
instead of seizing the day
he spends his time obsessing over dead poets
and staring at walls that never move
out windows towards a life he is afraid to take by the balls
weak in his self-doubt
he constructs his misery into a well crafted fortress of isolated ego
celebrating himself with a grand sense of malaise
as if darkness is the only thing that matters
as if cheer was foolery
as if confidence was in need of shunning
not often caught smiling
because it clashes with his black outfits and his Joy Division records
his brooding sense of fashion
he calls it art instead of madness
calls himself a misanthrope instead of a chickenshit
because it feeds into the illusion that his mistakes are noble
wears his fear like a badge of honor
and carries his woes around like morbid little trophies
silly son of a bitch
if only i could give him
a good
swift
kick in the ass
