Goldenrose

They call us the lost generation, 

but how can we be lost when we see everything? 

We inherited the ruins, 

the sins of the past like notifications, 

the echoes of greed carved into policy, 

With voices like flint against steel,
we strike against the silence,
catching fire – not to burn, but to blaze a path forward.
We are not the dying cinders of something lost,
but the first furious glow of something rising.

I don’t know if we’ll ever be whole. Not that we ever were in the past. It has struck me, though, recently, that, while we, or at least I, frequently discuss, and, indeed, logically understand that our rights are not our own an

I wake up in a world that’s always moving, 

a second away from breaking. 
I scroll through the noise, 

and I wonder what happens when the screen goes dark. 

It's only February  

and look at this world.  

I want to know if we'll 

get through all of this. 

And on the other side,  

will I still be standing,