On Listening to Paramore’s Emergency
In a world where children are bent and bruised,
Parents have left to find their fortune.
Their jagged edges are covered with bandages,
Hearts broken get cartoon caricatures.
“A man can turn his head only so many times,”
It has been said, “And say that he sees nothing:
Every where he turns his head, that is what he sees,
Yet he turns again, empty, brokenness, shattered skyscrapers,
Buried castles in the sky, and he tramples on their fairytales.
In a time when the world of children,
Has become nothing more than reality,
Dreams are burnt to ashes and a soot that suffocates.
Those meant to guard the little ones, offend most deep.
Their education in the ways of the world,
Brings down their own despair on the hopeful hearts
Of those who have not yet been jaded.
So children hold bruises behind their skin
And fairytales are buried with their castles.
Brick by boring brick, we build real life,
Devoid of true magic, left to seek the dark supernatural,
Equilibrium between beauty and rationality,
Crumples beneath the curses of the real.