When the World Crumbles


I look to the sky for a dream, the stars seem to yell surrender. My generation has lost its roots, our world is yelling timber. Our forefathers always ask “What went wrong?” I say “We have no words for our song.” I try to rise above, I’m looking for a new start. I have a real vision, and a real dream in my heart. Their faces are ashen, and I can see the smoke. Sometimes we have to put the life back into our ghost. The hallways are our coffins; the students look like zombies. The Aderal and Xanax pushed down our throats by politicians like Romney. Our society views us as trouble makers and wise-cracks and know-nothings, Because we cherish life and the moment more than we do pencil-pushing This is my generation, and we may be lost, But we are drawing our own map, paying whatever the cost. A generation of “bad” daughters, sons, nephews, and nieces. When the world crumbles, we just want to pick up the pieces.

This poem is about: 
My community
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