Youth

I miss tolerance levels and wandering heads,

Peeing outside and empty beds.

Warm beer and pop tarts are Prozac for the youth

And if it were an option,

We wouldn’t hide the truth.

It’s easy to be free when they don’t know who you are…

But a flat tire and empty pockets wouldn’t get me that far.

Then there’s a man with a family, he’s a farmer,

Playing a representative for man made karma.

He pounds his wooden fist, engraving my sins,

While sinners sink slowly, chests to our chins.

And it’s those consequences of honesty that twist my stories,

Because your lack of compassion is too insensitive for me.

Can I ask which one of your opinions did you not consider fact?

You’re starving for sincerity with not a hint of tact.