Children raising themselves are the reason why sex sells, why petulance has become pedestrian and synonymous with prepubescence. Parents that refuse to instill values or morals in their offspring, quickly reveal that they are the reason their children are dressed for the season but insipid and boring. These babies are having babies, and only then do their parents wonder what the Hell they did wrong, as if nine months were the only indication they had for their list of discrepancies which was several sorry pages long. Exposed to more skin during the day than exists in some pornography, influenced to lose more weight in the hopes of being told by complete strangers whether they are just plain or pretty. Accepting challenges to pour alcohol into their own eyes or successfully inhaling and regurgitating condoms on their first try, I would blame it on their parents but they are nowhere in sight, enslaved by money as they model the behaviour that is eventually accepted as right. In comparison, reality television appears to be overflowing with class, as the real housewives seem more scrupulous than these parents that refuse to teach their children how to last. Suicides attempted from insults strewn on the internet, these kids, though in a rush to be adults, are so easily, irreversibly upset. Confidence could have conquered their consideration of others' cruel critiques, as immeasurable insecurities immediately invalidate everything that they believed. Devoid of the ability to rise above or see beyond, sticks, stones and especially words can easily break their fragile bonds. Darwin held onto claims that only the fittest would survive yet somehow these devolved beings made it out alive. If the future of the world rests in hands that are too preoccupied with their phones, mankind as we know it will die, replaced by derailing dial tones.
Time stood still for nary a soul, it dragged its feet, aching and old. Blistering heat that made us melt, we were once softer than silk felt. Hallowed hearts wind whistled through, covered in bruises, black and blue. Hardly broken, but maybe bent, running on empty and love spent. There comes a day in all our lives, when our failures cut deep as knives. But you shall remain a triumph, you stayed with me, like a science. Words were whispered, curses, we'd shout, until the blood drained from our mouths. Yesterday—softer than silk felt; seems like all we do these days is yell.
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