Tag: family

the ballad of timeless me

the ballad of timeless me

“i’ve seen it all, babygirl”

i’m time -no cap, i’ve seen the scroll.
from boomers’ grooves to alpha’s toll.
each gen thinks they’re the final boss –
but trust me, love, y’all mid at most.

boomers: “talk softly, dress neat, write checks, repeat.”

they called me “hip,” they called me “rad,”
drank black coffee, not ‘dad-to-bad’.
they smoked indoors and said, “behave!”
then blamed it all on microwaves.

love notes folded like paper swans,
now y’all just text: “u up?” at dawn.
they feared long hair and disco lights –
now they’d trade their knees for tiktok likes.

gen x: “raised by vibes, powered by eye-rolls.”

gen x came through with shoulder shrugs,
too grunge to care, too broke for drugs.
watched mtv and wore disdain,
believed emotions were a scam campaign.

they walked so memes could later run –
invented cool, then dipped for fun.
used payphones, mixtapes, dial-up moans,
and ghosted you via dial tones.

millennials: “we brought brunch. you’re welcome.”

ah yes, the latte-generation crew,
cried at work and called it “breakthrough.”
they said “adulting” like it’s war,
then rage-quit zoom at 34.

they’re all “burnout,” “side-hustle,” “vibe,”
manifesting peace through spotify tribes.
they romanticized healing in cafes –
while buying crystals on emis.

gen z: “it’s giving… psychological warfare.”

then gen z burst in, full on flex,
with adhd and autocorrects.
said “rizz,” “slay,” “delulu” and “based,”
and typed in lowercase. unphased.

they cancel, stan, get un-cancelled too,
wear trauma like it’s a designer shoe.
invented “beige flags,” dated “icks,”
and argued love through instagram pics.

they don’t walk, they core -it’s a thing.
goblin, feral, clean girl, king.
gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss spree –
meanwhile, i’m in the corner like “bruh… me.”

gen alpha: “touchscreen toddlers and existential roblox.”

alpha? bro -they don’t even blink.
they google life before they think.
they don’t play tag -they play on apps,
get diagnosed by chatgpt claps.

they call mom “bruh,” call dad “npc,”
their lullaby? lo-fi adhd.
they’ve never seen a tree get climbed –
but can deepfake grandma in real time.

me  – time: “certified boomer, eternal slay.”

i’ve worn every font, danced every cringe,
from flared-out jeans to y2k fringe.
each era slaps, then fades away –
like facebook moms who learned to slay.

but through it all, i’ve watched y’all grow
from “yeet” to “yikes” to “ratio’d.”
and if you think you’ve changed the game?
just wait, the next one won’t know your name.

so post your pics, go viral fast,
make reels about your healing past.
but know this truth from someone wise:
even “forever”… gets archived.

hashtag me. meme me. cancel me twice –
i’m time, bestie. you’re just my slice.

i’ll be here when you return

i’ll be here when you return

“from the pov of a rescued dog”

i wait by the shoe rack, wag on low speed,
they pat my head and leave  – like they always do.
the lock clicks twice, like a closing heartbeat,
then it’s just me, and the ticking, and the view.

the sunlight creeps in through the drawing-room lace,
it warms the floor where i sprawl and stare.
sometimes i bark at invisible things,
sometimes at echoes that aren’t really there.

by noon i’m pacing, checking the door,
wondering why it smells less like them.
the silence feels like it’s got sharp teeth,
and even my tail forgets how to wag then.

i nibble the toy that once had squeaks,
but now it just has memories and dust.
i curl up near their old worn shoes,
because even the smell of them feels like trust.

sometimes the neighbor kids giggle and shout,
dangling biscuits from their big white flat.
but i know that game  – they won’t drop it down.
it’s not food, it’s just fun they’re laughing at.

once, i couldn’t hold it  – i’m sorry for that.
they were late, and the tiles got wet.
i buried my nose in shame and fear,
thinking  – “will they still love me yet?”

and when they go to “goa” or “rome,”
i know the brown bag with my leash means not home.
the kennel has bowls and smiles and beds,
but none of them sound like their footsteps.

still, i try to be brave, make friends and sit,
but at night i howl with my old street grit.
the concrete cold feels like déjà vu  –
abandonment wears the same old shoe.

i’m jealous of kids with stay-at-home mums,
of lap dogs always getting picked up and swung.
i’m sorry i growl when they hug a stray,
i just don’t want to be replaced one day.

i was once a shivering pup in rain,
with bones for ribs and fleas for friends.
they gave me a name, a bed, a bowl,
and i promised them love that never ends.

so every time the sky turns gold,
and scooters hum and lift doors slide,
i rush to the entrance with all i’ve got  –
just hoping it’s them on the other side.

they think i don’t know the days of the week,
but i do  – weekends smell stronger of love.
those are the days when they stay home,
and i get belly rubs from the heavens above.

i don’t need words, i don’t need much  –
just a gentle call, a familiar touch.
they may leave a hundred times or more,
but i’ll be waiting by the same old door.

through thunder, boredom, hunger, or sun,
with stitched-up toys and dreams that run  –
no matter the silence, no matter the burn…
i’ll be here when you return.