(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
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 treacheryOf 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."