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My Point of View vs. My Generation

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Boil
boil
tick tock
the clock toils.
Draining.
Refraining.
Brain keep
restraining.
The young,
the numb
pour the rum.
Dumb.
Entertain,
insane
colliding trains,
of thought.
Or not.
Who can know
the things taught?
What we've learned,
has us burned
and in turn
we discern.
Whats better
and whats worse?
Do you hold a curse?
To be well versed,
yet have never rehearsed?
To feel on the verge?
To burst?
To not fear
the back of
a hearse?
To welcome the pain
'cause at least its something
gained.
From this numb
hum-drum life
of a girl set on strife?
To make rhymes in a class
where no one gives a rats' a**.
They feel freedom in the way
that it doesn't matter
the things they say
or the grade they get
because that will never reflect
who they are.
They are gonna be fleeting
shooting stars.
Crashing cars.
Future fillers of bars, that say-
“We take what is ours.”



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