We rip a hole in the November afternoon,
a sloppy time-warp in the stadium parking lot—
one minute we’re adults with Tums in our pockets,
the next we’re sixteen
screaming lyrics like we wrote ’em.
Warped Tour rises from the asphalt
like a sunburned ghost.
Hot vans, hotter merch tents,
plastic bracelets digging into our wrists—
God, we missed this stupid chaos.
We shove through the crowd
on creaky knees, old Vans,
mosh-pit warriors
with lower-back warranties expired.
Every jump feels like rebellion,
every landing feels like regret.
But we don’t care.
Not today.
Today the guitars are feral again,
the air tastes like sweat and freedom,
and time bows its ugly head
just long enough for us to spit in its face.
The chorus hits—
we howl it like a promise
we know we can’t keep:
We’ll never grow old!
Then our spines crack like snare drums
and we laugh,
because the wrath of time is real
but so is the rush
of going back
for one loud, perfect afternoon
to the place
where everything hurt—
and nothing mattered.