You speak of death
and change
and hope
and anxiety.
You beg for recognition
in rambling,
poorly allusionistic spoken words.
You waste these early morning hours
in a drunken smoky stupor
pretending to be adults.

Which of you goes home to sleep half
a day on your mom and dad's dime?
Which of you works
to buy the liquor and the smokes?

Leave this concrete stage by the
crashing waves.
Go home. Sleep it off. Get a job. Volunteer.
Grow up.

Idealism does not feed you.
It cannot shelter you.

Words don't change anything.
What you do
What you do
changes you.