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Before it's gone
The Rage
You cling to me
to impress me
but the only impression left
is a five-fingered bruise
where you dug into me
desperate for something from inside me.

As if any of these
were so easy to give.

My mouth curls to its familiar, cynical corners
I was never one to believe
we should respect our elders
on age alone.
I fight back the urge to toss your words aside
trample them into the earth
leaving my footprint as the mark
of futile years gone by.

I know one day I will be as you
desperately trying to impress the young
as if their worship would make me immortal
cutting off their opinions
driving home my own cold steel
I know one day they will roll their own tired eyes
and spit on my desperate touch.

I know, and I don't care
And somehow I am proud of this
This wanton refusal to learn
to foresee to grow to forgive
I am proud that I have no time for your weak wishes
and your obvious hatred of my youth
I am proud that you need me
and I do not need you.

So what does that say about you?
You who are begging for the caress
of one who knows he will one day
hate himself.