Perpetual Youth

He drives his Lincoln fast down those dirt roads. Too fast sometimes. He isn’t suicidal, or maybe he is. He wouldn’t mind if the car flipped, it was exhilarating, to say the least. Sometimes he would even take his hands off the wheel of his old Lincoln. He was an unusually narcissistic teenager. He was selfish to an extreme. The synthetic drugs and latex helped, or maybe they didn’t. He tripped on some things that were closer to acid than to Tylenol, but he never let himself get that far, except when his old, expensive car flew down the roads on the cliff’s edge. He let himself go. He let himself slip into old habits. The alcohol never really settled his loneliness, or maybe it did. He didn’t know, honestly. And at the moment, he was speeding too fast. Slipping off the road almost, the road of his sanity and the very real road in front of him. He should park, get his bearings before continuing. But he didn’t. The wind from his unrolled window was sobering. Maybe this time would be different; he wouldn’t end up playing in his perpetual bed of youth and move into a life of less bravado and more realism. He wasn’t optimistic or philosophical whatsoever. But at this moment he felt invincible, the road blinking past. He should stable himself. Come on, Theo, a little bit faster wouldn’t hurt. He pushed down on the pedal harder, the speed dialing spinning in his mind.

                Suddenly he was in a blurry haze, eyes clouding. All he could see was lilting tapestry, and crimson walls. Florescent lights crammed into his mind, bulging through his thick mindset. He wondered briefly if he should slow down, see as the synthetics and latex were kicking in. Cotton balls began filling his brain, a filing cabinet filled with abject scenery, a disturbing montage, a cunning tribute to those tight lipped bands, with depressing undertones. He finally skidded to a halt; he assessed his surroundings as a field of daisies. The sun was coming up. His parents must be wondering where he was, or maybe they weren’t. His mind worked like this, he always questioned everything. He got out of his car. He would at some point, become so filled with loneliness he would bring himself to drive home, but he couldn’t at the moment. And that was the best happy ending he got.


This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741