Where’s our adventure?
Our war? Our challenge?
Do we wander job to job?
Our purpose is consume?

I am being used, and wouldn’t have it any other way.
I didn’t choose it. But I am static.
Comfort keeps me docile, keeps me content,
with a circular life and square jawed dreams.
We read, only to say that we did. We poison,
only to get where we’re going.

The generation trying to save us is the one that condemned us.
We keep throwing blame, and they keep catching it.

But quiet. The television is on…