Soapbox Saturday – Becoming a “New Adult” – A Poetic Rant

Hi all, Rose here with my first “Soapbox Saturday” entry in a while.  Many of you know that I’ve been a little more than burned reading selections from the budding New Adult age group as of late.  Usually when I get burned in some way, that usually has the synapses in my brain firing, whether in musing about the problematic elements that leave me feeling burned or passionately fired up and wanting to do something.

I went on a writing rant as a result of the last New Adult book I read, and this poem came out in about 15-30 minutes.  I posted it on my Goodreads profile, and now I’m posting it here for your perusal.  Note to all: this isn’t necessarily a collective measure speaking against New Adult, but rather some of the problematic elements that are coming out of it as of late, and a genuine hope that people take heed of it and change the direction in which it’s going.  I actually think New Adult could work if it weren’t so inherently problematic from what I’ve seen so far.  This poem is probably better read in something of a “slam” session than by itself, but looking back over it, it actually turned out better than I thought it would to speak on its own measures.

There are a few plays on words with titles in this that you may recognize if you’ve read the books or know the grouping, but not all of them necessarily deal with the content (for example – I still haven’t read “Sea of Tranquility,” “Losing It,” or “On Dublin Street,” but I plan on doing so.

Fair warning ahead of time, this has a few instances of strong language.  I hope you enjoy it, and until next entry, stay well, all.

Regards,

Rose

 

Becoming a “New Adult” by Rose Summers

New Adult? Tell me something that’s not new,
Tell me something that’s not tried and “TRUE”.
Stories reaching our growing, maturing youth
With the so called realities of the world’s heavy truth.

But these “new” stories never speak for me,
Stories that debate the state of my virginity.
Where no matter what decision I choose,
Bitch, whore, slut, I’m the one that will lose.

But it’s seriously okay, because I’m given my own rock star,
Meet at school, a hotel, or somewhere at a bar,
Tattoos on his body I can trace in rivulets of ink,
Who covers me with kisses faster than I can blink.

But he’s a bad boy, “Walking Disaster” on the path to nice
But such redemption comes with a heavy price.
You play by his rules, but you’re still not considered divine,
For the price for his love, “I” becomes “me” and “mine”.

At what point does it become too much,
When love ignites by a simple touch?
Oh, excuse me, I should clarify – it’s *electricity*,
The buzz word for “it’s meant to be.”

But this is no “Sea of Tranquility”
Filled with these overt displays of misogyny.
Where the “disaster” becomes “beautiful”, instead of a curse,
Where a lover passively tolerates their other at their worst.

Broken, shattered, taunted, tattered,
The lust of torment is romantic in all that’s scattered,
Instead of taking the high road, seeking a “Point of Retreat”
Or dumping his rear by the wayside “On Dublin Street.”

When dominance lends to submission, what way to bend,
“Thoughtless”, “Effortless”, “Reckless”, “Hopeless” – see the trend?
A road to something becomes “The Edge of Never,”
And what seems “Easy” is not so clever.

When did “Losing It” become something to gain?
Where did the line cross from working towards pleasure to receiving pain?
No, I won’t say it again, I won’t mold to the grain,
It’s not a love that seems strange if it adapts to change.

There aren’t enough hearts here compared to dealing spades,
And darling, there’s more color to the world than Fifty Shades.
Whether Black, Latino, or Asian, they deserve more than a second glance,
And Native Americans do so much more than “rain dance”.

Count “Ten Tiny Breaths” to realize you’re not really breathing,
But blood boiling and positively seething,
If the cost of becoming an adult means watching a lover hit, thrust and run wild,
With all due respect, I would rather remain a child.

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