The feeling of your dissapointment was palpable,
I could taste it on my tongue like I hadn't brushed my teeth in days,
And feel it thick in the atmosphere,
Like heavy smoke from a forest fire.

The grey bags under my eyes did nothing but exclaim my insomnia,
When you told me that maybe I just wasn't going to bed at the right time.
And frustration swam round my bloodstream as I just couldn't get the right pitch to that song I alsways used to sing.

The melancholy rumble from my gut,
Reminded me that I was alone unless I had a full stomach,
My figure didn't matter,
Cause neither I, Let alone anyone else sexualised it.

(No one of my own age that is)

Sleep deprivation rushes round me like gale force winds from a tropic storm,
Lack of money burns holes in my pockets,
and wanderlust nags at my brain like overdue assignments from a College wreck,
Whilst everyones moaning infects me like a plague,
when I find stress spots crawling up my neck.

I am generation Z,
Generation nothing,
Generation give up,
Generation what the ****?
Generation, "Who the hell told you I could live like this?"

But I am privileged,
In a house,
But I am not me.

I am grieving.

I am grieving myself again.