These Are the Times
I just want to be happy.
Walking down suburbia or
some country lane, listening
to Lukas Graham straight from our phones
doing silly jibes, drinking lemonade from plastic
cups, plotting a food run for later, like we did back
in college when we were the peak of the generation
in between the relentless days of sorting through
our childhood and wishing that things that had been different;
a friend for the hard times there, a parent for the hard times here.
A soft hand on the backs of our scars to the say that the pain of yesterday
is okay and that you are human in spite of all the strange men that paraded
through your house when you were six and that through all of that you
learned to say you had some good days because you remembered the love and
refused to regret.