In exclamations of explanations,
they brag of inspiration,
instigating situations,
love of love and work and work,
to move and shake the air away.
To breathe within the broken desks aligned in classrooms,
walls laced with guilt,
floors laced with stepped-on pride;
here, where love becomes safer fucks
and boys turn their back to lady luck
to fall for masks and make-up,
to fall for the dolls in a child's bed.

Hey, Seventeen,
you broke your back on the American dream
but as your tiny heart can dance,
so can your machine.

Kids lose their minds to chalked over statements
in proof of life and death and realities,
burning black to nothing-dreams;
sit back and watch the TV screen
and drown in no ones sympathy
in this fucked up world that we call "free."

Hey, Seventeen,
you broke your back on the American dream
but as your tiny heart can dance,
so can your machine.

You can dance with no strings attached
when ropes will wrap around your throat
no sooner than you acquire what you call a life of hope.
Puppet, dear, I fear you'll burn
but our waving flag has yet to learn
that hating ourselves is what we love the most.