the punk-rock battlefield

first comes the quiet hushes,
the soft words,
the silent pain

when day fades into night
and you’re lost in a sea of black-leather jackets
you open your mouth to scream
and only air comes out

then comes the soft melodies of the guitar
that twist and morph into a sound
so fragile you swear it will shatter
like glass

“bad noise” blares out of old microphones
that distort the sound but never
take away the beauty,
worn out from decades of use

third comes the rain
pouring down like diamonds,
cutting through your skull
all the way down to your soul
where they all fall into an empty, black pit in your stomach
I have been told can only be filled with God

they fill me up nonetheless
and I live off a steady diet of red paint
and old alleyways
and the ashes of burnt memories

next, up ahead,
there’s a rest stop waiting for you
where you can wallow in your teenage angst
as you are repeatedly chastised
to just, for the respect and integrity of the older generations
let it go

and what comes fifth?
your first real scream
gnawing and gnashing at the feet of the patriarchy
and the walls and foundation of society

your voice echoes through city streets
as you let out the burden that’s been
forced upon your blackened soul
and you scream your throat raw,
burning with same pain
that stings your eyes in the darkness

and you shout
until you have nothing left in you
until you have nothing