Were we guilt of trying to be something we were not?
Unpleasantness went unspoken:
death, ***, depression
Ideas which did not exist
in our buttercup yellow
stake in suburbia

Like a slate was held
over the tops of our heads
keeping knowledge out
keeping pain in
where it festered in our bones
and our minds became darkened
all the same

Dispassionate parents
whose fire rests unknown
bred a lost generation
I and my sisters,
our little brother
all burning up inside.
Contradicting notions
manifesting themselves over the years

Who will we become?
Where does the path
of a sterile, manicured
lawn lead?

It leads to each other
that is how we will find ourselves
in the flesh of our flesh.