This is no emergency, so please do not miss a breath.
The girls inhale lines of snow: the boys are Lost in meth.
The parents, well, they have money and it detaches their very eyes
From watching their precious child “do no wrong” to their demise.
For the parents I assume denial built from selfless love they give.
But then I see more clear the fear of the life they now will live.
The latter holds not selflessness, but rather it is this they see:
The failed product they have bred, not the person he or she will be.
Now the boys find their minds going a mile with each blink.
And the lovely girls find their hearts in love, or at least they think.
And the parents, well, they will pause, praise, perpetuate, and play
The game that fills the absent time of the white collar parents day.
The boys and girls now find themselves on the kabuse of a train-
Crossing the threshold of difference, that now does not remain.
While walking, eyes three inches deep, they do not see reality.
Just another run down whistle-stop, built for them, conveniently.
This is not an emercgency, but two young people are now dead.
A boy, he has overdosed, and a girl, well one went through her head.
Communities now mourn, save a critic scratching his righteous beard.
And speaks to what he had foreseen and what the others feared.
But the parents do not hear him, his words float into space.
As time must goes on, he will hold no living trace.
But this circle will continue: it will find no peace in death.
And it will bring your precious prize to his or her last breath.