A stick of dynamite, betwixt the stones of life,

Demolish and obliterate the good, but rid us of the strife.

We are grey in a world so drab and dull,

Trying to escape the world's perpetual lull.

We are the trapped, the forsaken, the lost,

We try to rid ourselves of this mess at all costs.

Entrapment by grief, chilled by pain,

In this world of failure, there's nothing to gain.

We have not seen death, yet we are not alive,

To survive, to revive, what we contrive.

Anguish fills our heads, and pain our hearts,

In the race of life, we were slow off the start.

Confused by reality, weathered by young age,

If this truly is a phase, when will I reach the next stage?