Wrapped in a blanket I still shiver,

And my hands freeze as I type in the snowy bright light,

My head against the window pane.

 

I wonder what it feels like to feel anything

But paralyzing frustration.

 

My misunderstood passions  

Have manifested themselves in this solitary life,

Comprised of poor posture and clacking keyboard keys,

There’s no soundtrack to my summer

Because summer does not come.

 

Here I am,

Chasing every whim and fleeting desire,

Creating pseudo-spring by participating in protests that make me feel alive.

But I’m tired of being the minority

Whose main focus is promoting the welfare of the

Children of the generation that acts in spite of us.

 

WE ARE TRYING TO HELP YOU.

 

So I groan and sigh and grumble the cynic’s anthem

And drag tired feet against the swift current of “Progress”

And in my passion for the different you say I’m

Unrealistic.

 

Me?

 

I just don’t understand

How you think that anything is more important

Than the health of our earth.

Because if she’s dead

So are you.

 

I wish I could change your culture.

 

Because the future of your children are at stake.

Because I like to look at mountain tops

And swim in waters that won’t poison me.

Because I love fresh air and my unalienable rights,

To life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

 

Well, nature is my happiness,

And you’re encroaching on my rights.

 

I just want to change this culture,