We use youth
As an excuse to be happy
We paint on our smiles
As a way to convince ourselves
That nothing is wrong
That nothing is broken

At thirteen we are angry
Because the world we have been promised
Is not real
We were told that becoming a teenager means
That everything would fall together
Until we end up falling apart

At sixteen we are blind
We fall in love for the first time
And expect them to love us back
We are angry
Because we learn that
Love is essentially synthetic
Plastic

At eighteen we are dead
That youthful boy or girl
Is no longer alive
Their inspired eyes close
Their smile becomes lost
So they paint on a new one

Blind, angry teenagers use youth
As an excuse to be happy
Once they understand that
That is what they were taught to do