Middle-class, educated, better than all of you. The poet whines that the people he said were his friends were his friends. Too eager to stick it to the man, his sentences end where he pleases.
Not understanding, as his peers are hurt when insulted, he blames the age to which he was born of his troubles. He should have been born in the fifties. Absolutely nothing was wrong with the fifties.
Love is not a safe place. It is not the taste of their name coughed by the cancerous lung, drowning in overused metaphors. A lover is not a tool, to take you in and give you everything they have, to spew a 'better' person next year.
Death is not the endless peace, nor the bliss, nor the torture nor infinite void. It is the end, no matter how artistically short you write each line, and none of it mattered.
In which Edward is very white and probably a hypocrite.