Decomposed

Where is the originality,
In the youth today?
We've had it taken from us,
disappeared slow,
almost completely gone away.
but in our heavy hearts
some have silent, seeking lines-
though we lay in wait to fail,
the words are etched into our minds.
Alone, we face the sea of words,
vainly trying to learn.
but the tide pulls us under,
our lungs begin to burn.
the beauty of desperate pain screams
we write best as we die,
just as our lives slip through our fingers,
to save ourselves, we begin to lie.
but in all contradictions,
we breathe deep again,
truths sliding from our suffering lips.
never, though, able to scratch 'fin'.
It's endless agony, if you want to play the part.
feeding those with a succumbed to greed
to have what we write and know.
but we still write,
write long after our fingers bleed.