Aug 23
isabelle's picture

burnouts of my generation

I

Rain pours from the gutters, seeping over the edges of your consciousnesses,

enter, smoke filled daze and oppression filled days,

you are not alone in your mourning, we all cry for our fathers to return home with the good news,

out here we bust our asses for a shrine, we pray for memorium, we cry for recognition and we

receive only a shadow of former hope,

enumerations of goodwill overtake anyone who opposes the system set in place for the

prosperity of Generation Z,

gravestones cause no tears from the steeled bones of our youth,

though yours and mine will weep if the ribbons of our participation are not hung on the winners

wall for the world to applaud the success of attempted suicide,

driven by maddened tyrants of worldly desires and extra-terrestrial hope of a bright future lined

with shiny golden wedding rings and bright green bills,

but who has that kind of ambition anymore,

certainly we do not expect this from the burnouts we call our children, the burnouts that are

ourselves and the burnouts that carry the weight of our future.

 
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