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Are You Okay, Kiddo?
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Our guise is that of an apparition,
Enthralled in the vanity of self-worship.
Our robe, our crown,
As much a part of us as the very marrow in our bones.
We'll have you begging for your mother in the morning,
Your father is out,
He's damn right he should be worried.
They'll call you Jane Doe.
One in a million,
One and the same,
One empty chamber,
One less to blame.
This is a failing institution and I've failed to notice.
I've learned not to despise this sentiment.
Complacency invokes atrophy's embrace.
And so what if I can't leave this room?
That never stopped us before.
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