Nov 2011
Do not tell me that I am of a generation without religion,
As though its a bad thing.
Because I am as connected as you are, but my beliefs don't come from a book.
No, mine come from what this world tells me.
This world, the one who knows its wrong to stone someone,
But who won't be too mad if someone's ******.
Yes, this is my world. A world that knows we only have one to make, or to break.
And a world who knows that there's a risk for every chance you take,
But that the end of the day, you're only in trouble if you've lost yourself.
We're the generation that isn't sure how to feel.
No, no, we certainly know where out opinions lay,
Its the actual connection to our feelings that have gone away.
How would you feel if you were made guilty about every meal?
Whether its because your fat *** doesn't need it,
Or because you grew up knowing that those kids on TV,
they deserve it more than you do.
And that whether the two of you could hold a single conversation together doesn't matter,
Because all you can think about is that your world tells you that meal is the last thing you need,
While his need not remind him that its the last favour on our list of good deeds.
Not that he holds it against me or you,
After all, how would you decide between water, food, or a shoe?
I asked how you would feel, if for you this meal guilt was what you called real.
And you probably don't know, and neither do I,
Remember when I told you, we don't know how to feel?
Now don't think this means we don't understand feelings, oh no.
Those of us who listen with our eyes, you'd be shocked by what we know.
We know your eyes would be stuck on the men holding hands,
While ours burned to watch how he grabbed her's just a little too tightly.
You see, we see which is the boy, and which are the men.
And while we're not overseas, our war is here.
Because most of us are either one of those brave soldiers being called queer,
Or our home is where the enemy lies,
our beds made of fear,
while he opens another beer
and his fist draws near.
If it were you, tell me, where would Jesus steer?
If we gave him the wheel, could he keep this from being real?
Yes, our war is all around and it is right here.
And though I may not be sure how to feel,
I know what it means when I shed a tear
365 days, of this short year.
As though its a bad thing.
Because I am as connected as you are, but my beliefs don't come from a book.
No, mine come from what this world tells me.
This world, the one who knows its wrong to stone someone,
But who won't be too mad if someone's ******.
Yes, this is my world. A world that knows we only have one to make, or to break.
And a world who knows that there's a risk for every chance you take,
But that the end of the day, you're only in trouble if you've lost yourself.
We're the generation that isn't sure how to feel.
No, no, we certainly know where out opinions lay,
Its the actual connection to our feelings that have gone away.
How would you feel if you were made guilty about every meal?
Whether its because your fat *** doesn't need it,
Or because you grew up knowing that those kids on TV,
they deserve it more than you do.
And that whether the two of you could hold a single conversation together doesn't matter,
Because all you can think about is that your world tells you that meal is the last thing you need,
While his need not remind him that its the last favour on our list of good deeds.
Not that he holds it against me or you,
After all, how would you decide between water, food, or a shoe?
I asked how you would feel, if for you this meal guilt was what you called real.
And you probably don't know, and neither do I,
Remember when I told you, we don't know how to feel?
Now don't think this means we don't understand feelings, oh no.
Those of us who listen with our eyes, you'd be shocked by what we know.
We know your eyes would be stuck on the men holding hands,
While ours burned to watch how he grabbed her's just a little too tightly.
You see, we see which is the boy, and which are the men.
And while we're not overseas, our war is here.
Because most of us are either one of those brave soldiers being called queer,
Or our home is where the enemy lies,
our beds made of fear,
while he opens another beer
and his fist draws near.
If it were you, tell me, where would Jesus steer?
If we gave him the wheel, could he keep this from being real?
Yes, our war is all around and it is right here.
And though I may not be sure how to feel,
I know what it means when I shed a tear
365 days, of this short year.
