Trip, skip over shoelaces destined to hang from telephone lines
dangling, banging in our wind-tunnel city.
What a waste is the mantra carried high on the breeze.
We’re wasting our lives and our soles.
Snickering, bickering we forge our adolescence through this adult world,
carelessly we plunge: irreverent and irrelevant.
Our bare feet beat, blister against the pavement,
charcoal roadways and sun-heated concrete.
We run and race, tracing painful veins through a town with us hot in its blood.
A miscreant plague rebelling against hypocrisy
really only trying so hard we’re dying to find where we fit in.
If you could walk in our strung-up shoes
down the tar capillaries of our neighborhoods
you would see why we’re wasting our time, wasting our souls
in an antiseptic adult world that doesn’t trust us or care about justice
that leaves our blisters drying in the summertime sunshine
trying to find more meaning than being stuffing for plywood boxes, close and toxic.
Nobody sees the times we bleed, the love we need in our ramshackle city.
We’re poison in the veins of this town and we’re to blame,
and as long as we’re young, confused, and alone
our bare feet will tear through the streets and beat out our lamentations.