this is a generation of wide-eyed pretended innocence waiting for the next big thing.
a roll-over accident with severed limbs and bloodied torsos,
white sheets and caravans of black suits in one perpetual sad-parade.
this is an experiment in living gone wrong.
you look away,
stomach in your throat and like an elastic...
snap back to those grisly images.
it's not that you enjoy the sight of pain;
that freshly spilled blood brings you pleasure.

it's a reminder that you still live.
there is still breath in your lungs.

this is a selfish self-awareness.
a perpetuated lie that everything is all right in your circular existence.
these are the unfortunate strangers.
you only see what you want to see.
an uncertain beauty blossoming from unjustified pain.