My mind is a withering root, searching for a conversation thread to grab at
I’m shy in the way that your facts and figures do not dazzle me, I don’t always read the news so I’m sorry if I don’t know the word of the day
That I’m bored with the way that you talk
I grasp onto people who talk about change and things to come like a giant juicy fruit
But you, who pretends to realise that the world is rotting at its core
Without seeing that this core is you and I
And I’m tired
And I’m young
Youth is not the enemy but you make it feel like a loaded pistol
Pointed at your head yelling “DO YOU FEEL OLD YET MOTHERFUCKER”
“You’re only 22”…
And I don’t understand?
I understand that you twist fancy words into your vocabulary as if padding your social resumé with artificial sweeteners
We’re all just peacocks in an eternal mating season after all
I admit that I am self-serving alcohol driven trash but what’s your poison?
There’s no use acting high and mighty, sir
Step up to the bar and order.