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Writer's pictureBrett Moore

A Poem: My Generation

It's expected, says the data. 


That corporate pocket watch plays catchy jingles

to all these smug, commercialized independents.


Idling, self absorbing, cyclical, pointless.


Happiness is provided for you 

in 30 plus miles to the gallon

of an absolutely finite resource.


Pero a quien le importa?


MTV launched a new series called, 

“OMG, LIKE, BABIES, OR WHATEVER!!"

and we all LOL (lose our lives) watching it.

My generation is like, so ratchet.

I mean FML, right?


My generation is sexting, fist pumping and laziness

with a spray tan and matching middle finger attitude.


We raise our children with empty values

and fret over them with digital eyes, 

too preoccupied for proximity.


My brothers and sisters can see 

Paris fashion in real time,

and never leave the living room.

We are experts of places and objects 

we have never seen or held.

Wikipedia's graduating class 

of .com scholars.


My generation is enslaved

to loans and collections.


Credit. Debit. Credit. Debit.


We are the bastard children 

of loopholes and unpaid taxes 

and fat government handouts.


I can receive compensation 

for filling out a job application.

I can bite the hand that feeds me

...apathetically.

I can sue the coffee maker 

for selling me addiction.


I could get rich for not trying.

However, my generation 

prefers the viciously vicarious.


We are better entertained by it.

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