I am bound to the hopes of this generation
we want change
am I wasting your time, the way hair bursts into colors,
and you think about
the chains that silently prevent you from moving [your world?].
the warm liquid underneath your tongue and surrounding your soul,
tries desperately to keep you sated with comfort
with the small joys [bribes?] that await you if you succumb to contentedness
if you let the lullabies of the modern sirens lull you into believing
that there is nothing wrong with embracing
the privilege [earned?] your birth extends to you
place and time and color and language
are you really willing to let this be what
will be the separateness?