Bailey Young/The Baron
My generation is different—
lost and found, here and nowhere,
chasing belonging in places we don’t understand,
craving love that lasts only as long as the thrill.
There is no unity, only fragments of self,
each encounter a mirror,
each moment a search for something unnamed.
We haven’t located yet,
haven’t stepped beyond our own shadows,
haven’t lived enough to speak of wisdom,
yet we do, with trembling hearts.
We are ice dissolving in a glass,
ashes curling from a cigarette,
an empty bottle with echoes of a high.
We drink from life but never taste it,
call ourselves free but chain our own hands.
We breathe, yet turn away from oxygen,
reject gods, not from disbelief,
but from the indifference we face daily.
We justify choices we don’t understand,
mistaking impulse for destiny.
We learn without understanding,
grow without reflection,
live without feeling the weight of our own blood.
We are human,
yet we try so hard not to bleed the same.
