No Hero to Emulate

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No Hero to Emulate

We are outliving ourselves faster than we can resurrect ourselves.

We do not have time to wait, but we have time to scream at walls with righteous ears that won’t answer back.

Put us all together and what do we spell?

Where are the exclamation points among us?

We are fed up with remedies that cure too quickly and rob us of our chance to look at our true teacher.

There are rule makers around us, who do not mistake us for law abiding citizens, but for what we are-which is?

Not rebels-give me the “against”.

Not reformers-give me the formed,

Not a deafening roar-give me an audience.

We have no mirrors to break, and no roll to adopt,

No bed to make, no hero to emulate.

 

*

We are the un-fathered

Who died in their shadows,

Which we lovingly lived in.

 

We are the un-fathered,

The destroyed

And flame feeling.

 

We are the un-fathered,

Whose bones yield no ashes

For our progeny

To resemble.

 

The un-fathered

Perfect and dead.

 

We are the un-fathered,

The sons of ourselves.

 

Raw

Give me the raw!

The muscles of my jaw

Have not been in awe

Of the hardness of a thing

In over a millennium,

Give me the taste of

My Generation.

 

*

Adrenaline to pump into my sedated Generation,

Keeping calm out of courtesy,

Riotless and rotting is our nation.

 

Outlets have migrated for the season,

And aggression darkens our decency,

Adrenaline to pump into my sedated Generation.

 

Where is our deserved elation,

What have we done to deserve this lethargy?

Riotless and rotting is our nation.

 

We’re after the storm and the ocean,

But have forgotten how to unlearn hesitancy,

Adrenaline to pump into my sedated Generation.

 

We desire to cause a commotion,

Yet we ask for permission to use the lavatory,

Riotless and rotting is our nation.

 

We are dying of our own venom,

The one we dare not release willingly.

Adrenaline to pump into my sedated Generation.

Riotless and rotting is our nation.

 

Into What Amplifier

Into what amplifier do we plug into best?

Where is the microphone that mutes all else save for ourselves?

Who can teach us how to take our first step again?

And where are the fathers to show us how to shave?

Where is our bulls-eye?

 

When a teacher enters the classroom we are expected to stand,

And when we raise our hands to ask a question,

Who do we expect to answer?

They satisfy nothing in us,

They are more relevant Yesterday,

But we have no relevancy either,

Though we are of Today.

 

Where are the raisers of banners, and the weavers of riots?

Where is the Generation in My Generation?

Omer Zamir is a twenty-three year old Israeli who has been writing poetry for the past four years. He has a passion for edgy and free spirited poets, such as Dylan Thomas, Walt Whitman, and George Holbrook. Music plays a big part in influencing his poetry, as well as quirky interactions with people. He’ll write until the lights go out.