We did not ask to be what we are
Look how you live. The world is not ready for my generation.
I will wake up tomorrow, and I will feel the same.
I think, in another time, I could have loved you.
We could have the kind of love that destroys everything around it.
I don’t know what the universe is up to, but I don’t trust it.
I’ve been trying so hard to beat the love back into my chest.
I’m getting tired, more and more, of waking up feeling all wrong for no reason at all.
I am torn in two but I will conquer myself, people won’t believe what I’ll become,
no more keeping my feet on the ground. This is a slum but,
over that hill, right there, is paradise; bullets or ballots, a city for conquest;
we can start a revolution.
everybody’s dosed, by minor things, by television,
and trying so hard to be blind to what the slums, smuggled child slaves, mixed-race couples,
drug store dolls and adolescent runaways have always endured;
battles without honor or humanity, trying to build a soul out of nothing
This generation of angels, demons and non-believers; young martyrs and trendsetters,
dead calm, half-smiling, half-sad; this generation is love humming a blues,
starving and in need of a drink, and a light; to survive and to keep from going insane,
to accept the outside world and be accepted by it, to keep a job so we can buy cigarettes, coke and coffee,
to keep a job so we don’t have to steal.
This is blacking-out for the first time and falling to earth,
the book of things I don’t understand, and the quickest way to a man’s heart.
A little bit longer and I’ll be fine. So what if I bleed, see how I love you?
A love that’s easy never turns out right, like so many other over-used words.
If the sky does not burst into flames, if everything is beautiful,
if the stars look familiar, if I stand at where I used to stand; did I move?
I will wake up tomorrow, and I will feel the same.
I think, in another time, I could have loved you.
We could have the kind of love that destroys everything around it.
I don’t know what the universe is up to, but I don’t trust it.
I’ve been trying so hard to beat the love back into my chest.
I’m getting tired, more and more, of waking up feeling all wrong for no reason at all.
I am torn in two but I will conquer myself, people won’t believe what I’ll become,
no more keeping my feet on the ground. This is a slum but,
over that hill, right there, is paradise; bullets or ballots, a city for conquest;
we can start a revolution.
everybody’s dosed, by minor things, by television,
and trying so hard to be blind to what the slums, smuggled child slaves, mixed-race couples,
drug store dolls and adolescent runaways have always endured;
battles without honor or humanity, trying to build a soul out of nothing
This generation of angels, demons and non-believers; young martyrs and trendsetters,
dead calm, half-smiling, half-sad; this generation is love humming a blues,
starving and in need of a drink, and a light; to survive and to keep from going insane,
to accept the outside world and be accepted by it, to keep a job so we can buy cigarettes, coke and coffee,
to keep a job so we don’t have to steal.
This is blacking-out for the first time and falling to earth,
the book of things I don’t understand, and the quickest way to a man’s heart.
A little bit longer and I’ll be fine. So what if I bleed, see how I love you?
A love that’s easy never turns out right, like so many other over-used words.
If the sky does not burst into flames, if everything is beautiful,
if the stars look familiar, if I stand at where I used to stand; did I move?