Do we remember ourselves?
At fifteen, sitting in some basement,
Painting and listening to Rush
as outside holes burst in walls
spreading so slowly like disease.
The girls, somehow they always eluded us,
as we smoked for the first time
and prayed, pleaded, screamed
for this to end.
Please remember us,
now these weary, confused adults.
I still have those old cassettes
and those old paintings
and still I watch those holes spread.
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