I give in... I give in... I wear my sweaters thin because nothing ever feels hyper-real I know kids who get raw experience yet call me the wiser for not getting any.
No one who sits at their dinner table, pretending to have something to write, deserves to be tired and so I don't catnap under the constipated clouds waiting for the rain.
I grow old--I grow old I don't like my trousers rolled as I walk down the street watching young people who don't give themselves a break from hyper-living Just keep kicking.
Not to generalize, but it must be said that a barbarous youth doesn't give in until their metal beams split and their windows come down and their doors can't open because of the debris and their admirees stand before the pile still not knowing who they are.
(It won't make them shiver to think you've opened up listening to their music unless they open their ears for you.)
After dusting themselves off will all the newborn adults shake hands look back on the skyscrapers that surrounded them and be friends?
I give in I relax over my comfortable, blank lines with nothing to write because I'm the only one with nothing to fight.