Cicadas Scream
A hyperbolic punk prose poem statement of purpose
No offense, but fuck the butterflies. And the monarchy while you’re at it. Poison wrapped in bejeweled beauty with sycophantic posers riding their coattails for survival. Keep your airbrushed wings for the magazine covers. Screw your prime time makeover. Drained of bad choices and wrapped in a mummy’s worth of plastic. We all remember how ugly you were on the inside, as ready to stab an enemy as a helping hand.
I fuck with the Cicadas. Rooting in the dirt for seventeen goddamn years, living on sap. None of that nectar shit. Nothing top shelf for a cicada. Until one day, you get your moment. Dig out and climb a tree, a trash can, anything to get you high. Burst out of your former self, that ugly husk. And there you are. Loud and still ugly. Raging in the twilight. Screaming for sex. Love if you got it.
So let everyone hear you. Make eardrums bleed. Fuck the butterflies, those gossamer whispers. You’re a cicada.
You got shit to say. And the world’s gonna listen.
About the Creator
Sean A.
A happy guy that tends to write a little cynically. Just my way of dealing with the world outside my joyous little bubble.
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