(The Ballad of the Angst-Stricken Youths that United Against Mannequinism, Only to Discover That High and Lofty Ideals are, by Nature, Marred by the Hypocrisy of Intellectual Snobbery—and of How the Omnipotent Decrees of the Mob Alchemized into the Golden Javelin of Pop Culture and Pierced Their Souls)

I have wasted myself upon a dream

That was never my own,

Spilling myself over the hard ground

Of a small, sad world,

Having accepted instead the steely heart

And sandy veins

And calculating abacus of a brain

Proffered me by a synthetic world.

This, the liberty of a free-thinking being?

This, the long and short

Of my life—a little dented ruler

That measures out the seconds

As a miser counts his coins?

Well, this is my resignation, then,

My two-week's notice.

(It's signed and certified,

If you're interested,

By the sweat of the used,

And the tears of the deserted,

And the blood of bodies bled dry

And picked apart by the

Anesthetized scalpel

Of this apathetic era.)

Therefore, I renounce this heart that ticks like a clock

Behind the iron bars of my ribs.

I abandon this aching void that sleeps

Behind the curtained panes of my eyes.

I forsake the burn of anger never satisfied By an onslaught by my stubborn fists— For I need only shatter the looking-glass. Amidst the chaotic limbo of an idealism

Thwarted from the start by the treachery

Of its own facade, the only assurance

To which I cling (with knuckles clenched white

With the effort of sustaining a hope

Blind to its own futility)

Is the tried and true proverb of old:

"Make it count—walk down the street, not across it."