NaPoWriMo 2025, Day 2

I wrote reams of angsty rhymes as a teen,
Some so dark that if written today
And read by the average grown up,
They would have me sent away.

They would fear that I would do harm to myself
Or perhaps be a threat to others
They might wonder what had happened to me
And question the parenting of my father and mother.

My poetry wasn’t always so dark,
It had been buoyant, hopeful, and bright,
But when my oldest sister was killed by her husband,
That thriving garden was ravaged by blight.

That was later the same year that roofs had collapsed
Crushed under an ashen cloud,
So the scene had been set, the colors erased,
And sound muted by that volcanic shroud.

I think of the young people growing up now
In this digital wasteland on fire
And wonder how their poetry has evolved,
What does it release, evoke and inspire…?