My Generation (Version 2003)

I've seen happy men leave their family's and never come back,

so don't tell me you know more then me.

I'm living in a world where men are mad

and woman whore and pimp themselves in the name of desire and freedom

There all to revealing tank tops shading fondly to the translucent facade of mechanically engineered breasts.

Their belly's starving and eating themselves away

because beauty is the ultimate prize.

Boy's are the same,

little boys,

my age,

are no longer satisfied with just a kiss.

They have to pluck and satisfy themselves with conquering the bodies of their victims.

Throwing their skin within and not vacating until they've left her broken on the side of the road screaming for her childhood again.

Begging to find her mother's arms once more.

Boys work and work themselves

until their muscles are big and bold like on TV.

Jaded and star struck Calvin Klein models high up in the air.

That's what they want,

that's what they need,

not food

not love

not me.

And how about those antibiotics,

the pills and powders that float beside my eyes and the all to tempting voice telling me to take them.

Lose myself within their strange skin,

its like nothing you've ever felt

until you swim inside the thickness of heroin

and then come out the other side screaming.

I'm living in a world where you gotta get the most bang for your buck,

like the guns that kids use to kill themselves with.

I danced with a suicidal thought once,

contemplated the idea of death,

envisioned myself gone.

I once closed my hands tightly around a rosary at church,

holding firmly to my faith

until life struck me like a violent slap in the face

that same slap that sent me flying to the kitchen floor until my face was thoroughly frozen with the guilt of being a bad little girl.

And what about the war on terrorism,

because God, war itself isn't terrorism.

We have to stop it all,

we have to go back,

but how when no one ever stops.

I wish that I didn't blame you for everything,

but the root of my anger grows from you

you nourish it and feed it and now I am as dead Uday and Qusay on my Television set.

I wish that I could let go of it,

stop all of these moments that are coming back to me as my hands busily type this on my computer.

My walkman tightly against my ears.

My Coca-Cola half drunk on the desk.

What's left

now that I am silent.