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Poem

A generation to ask why.
Peaked and taught a world is nothing but themselves, not even to be.

Occupying nothing but digital spaces offered to prior persons and parentage.

From here, where are we to go?
The highest minds have none to say.

If they did this, it wouldn't be.
The hardest working have no say.

If they did, ketamine-soaked South Africans,
wouldn't speak with unlimited counts of bills unearned.

This is the fall of hegemony.

Collapsing on a generation unequipped by dollar or door to take the whip,
But bears the brunt of our parent's quip.

Slowly choked from pubescent strange places.
Blamed for failures made for parental faces.

To the hound of the youngest boom: 
F yourself with a sapphirite tomb.
Lock it with lack-less clues uncared to all of whom:

You don't mean nothing at all to me.

I suspect in your head you know to whom I speak?
Does it matter? 
Wheels are never, as they've been never before.

You don't mean nothing at all.
But, you've got what it means to set me free.

And the day, and the night, and your will isn't broken, you are always on my mind.

Ask yourself who's always on your mind, 
Without device or sense to share,
And focus on fellow human kind.

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