My generation has never felt the heart of real work or effort,
tasted the rust of the heated sun sewing up their lips,
or have become acquainted with calluses on their hands,
because they have high expectations for everyone else to do their work for them.

It’s unsettling,
knowing that there is a disconnection in these minds and it only reconnects when these children,
hardly adults are searching for the next sip of poison to get to the next **** that even they know won’t satisfy their hunger for some kind of act of love,
the kind that could tie you up at gunpoint and you still wouldn’t give in because you know that there’s nothing stronger than that.

But how would I know?

(I have only seen it in movies.)

And I see the mothers and fathers that strive to better their children but feel like failures because they only thought it was a stage,
that they were experimenting with fire,
but that’s just them turning the other cheek until it follows them to the ends of their nerves,
biting and tugging and burning.  

Loose ends never knotted up again.

They always knew better than that,
and I’ve seen too many beautiful people do ugly things because they knew they were beautiful and didn’t know the difference.

So I’ve concluded that I don’t want to be a part of whatever this world might become,
I don’t want that kind of blood on my hands.