The Peter Pan Complex
When present woes torment my soul,
Power chord anthems are my relief,
Where teenage angst and social grief
Are shared with Chucks and tubes of kohl.
With double digits on the brink,
We were blithe and carefree, diehard fans
Of Dickies and sweatbands, spiked hair and new Vans,
When we threw up our rock hands for Green Day and Blink.
A decade passed, yet I remain
A black-clad mourner of this scene,
Poisoned by the bitter bane
Of growing up and coming clean.
For Peter Pan laboured in vain,
Punk rock’s coma is routine.