We’re under this enormous
pressure to be someone,
yet no one ever tells us
who that someone is
or how to become that person.
Even if they told us what to be,
would we even want to be it?
So, naturally,
we’re confused, frustrated,
and feeling more than a little
disappointed in the generation
who fucked us into life.
Don’t blame us.
Maybe you should have
used birth control.
Beneath the weight of towering expectations,
We’re urged to embody a self undefined,
Yet the compass of guidance remains absent,
Leaving us lost in the maze of identity,
Yearning to decipher this enigma.
Would we even yearn to don the mantle,
If the script of existence was handed down?
Or would we still recoil, resistant to conformity,
Lost in the struggle of forging a unique path,
Amidst a world perplexing and uncertain?
Hence, naturally, we stand in perplexity,
Caught betwixt frustration and confusion’s grasp,
The taste of disappointment lingers, bittersweet,
The generation before, architects of our inception,
Yet the map of their wisdom not passed along.
Let not the weight fall upon our shoulders alone,
The architects of our existence also bear a part,
In weaving the threads that culminate in life’s tapestry,
For within their choices, we find our genesis,
Their narrative shaping ours, intertwined.
So, let us not be quick to point fingers,
Yet, instead, fathom the complexity that lies within,
For in our journey, we craft the legacy anew,
A dance of generations, each learning from the last,
A symphony of voices, weaving the narrative of life.