"Howl" inspired poem

My version of "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg I wrote for my friends:

If you recognize yourself, it's for you:

On the edge of 15, 16, and 20:

We think about throwing ourselves off rooftops, and we go deaf to pass the time. Loud fool's metal, but only the dry kind. Headbangers' stuff on repeat like my heartbeat—

I breathe.

We are afraid to die.

Answered by psychiatric evaluation, and crawling up walls and down streets late at night. Drowning in bathtubs and in our own dishwater. We write bad poetry to add "depth" to our minds.

And breathe deeply.

The stars in our eyes are screens

Our fingers programmed to w, s, a, d

Shift, control, space

Time is running, but we're updating our face

Book pages. Life can wait.

Let's breathe.

We've craned our necks to the live sky, our heads back,

rushing oxygen can freeze time. [We scream]. And climb out windows deep under the night, because we can never get too high.

We breathe.

And we own knives and strike low blows. We deal prescription medication like crack, and throw punches fast, but this

heavy monotony is breaking us (slowly).

Take a breath.

Weight rooms are our late-night poetry joints. We live on the rim so loudly, everyone can hear us. Nothing can stifle us. We strike a match and ignite, and burn rapidly and smoothly both at the same time.

Inhale.　

Our emails come out in limerick. We don't really know what assonance is, or what consonance means, only that it doesn't rhyme with poetry. And keeping on the balls of our feet,

We can barely breathe.

Even though we're young in the land of the free,

We learned freedom isn't really freedom when you're young, and it is

etch-sketched on our Chinatown walls.

Breathe.

We wait together in 7/11 over dry cups of coffee.

We wait for Godot and listen hard, but the angels haven't come. And really, God,

all you've done is let me down.

Breathe.

But we aren't all that brave or reckless.

And the jackpot wheel is stumbling.

The lights in our eyes are short-circuiting.

We/are/breaking/out.

So we write our poetry, take our pills, and succeed at breathing

But (most of the time) we don't feel all that young

With old men held hostage in our bodies.

We will never really grow up.

The teenage pot smokers,

scarred weight-lifters,

and stupid, dull-eyed poets:

         They call us young from what they see. We peel back our skins—

                  Then breathe.

This is for the beautiful people. The real cool. The "so young." The snappers. The posers. The phonies. The losers. Those who keep their wrists hidden. The good-for-nothings ridden of that life-lust we need to survive: Your dance is the antidote for life:

         Breathe in

                  Breathe out

                                    Breathe in