Awkward and fumbling,
Teenagers looking around, cluelessness evident on their faces,
Waiting for something to happen, someone to come around,
Then it does:
A bottle.
A bottle, its contents brimming with goodness, with the thrill of intoxication,
Like a special pill,
That opens your senses to what you should be able to do, but find yourself impaired.
It takes a sip, then a drag, then an aesthetic blow of smoke,
Before you find yourself asking,
“Hey, how are you doing?”
And the only sober person in the room asks another question,
On a whole new note, to another person altogether,
Himself:
“If it weren’t for this single bottle, would any of us be here right now?”
The woe hits soon after because the answer is blaring before you,
No.
None of us would be here, because none of us know how.
We can’t muster a greeting, we’ve forgotten the art of conversation,
We’re living in an era where being social means how much you can mingle
After being under the effects of something you’re too young for,
And less how much you’re able to hold a dialogue before it hits.
In this eccentric time of glitz, glitter, and glamour,
Of digital get-togethers and social-media appropriate discussions,
We’ve lost the art of exploring-
Exploring new ideas, thoughts, people, and experiences,
And ourselves.
We’ve lost the art of exploring ourselves.
Read more such poems here.
