Our Dying Dreams

When we sit in classrooms listening to teacher’s talk
And drink ourselves half to death for the thrill,
Sleeping behind desks dreaming of the future
While being weighed down by the parrots of the past
The essence of greed sprouting from every developing tongue,
A belief spawned from the experience of shiny gold stars
And competitive classroom grades,

While we lay our heads down upon the chilling wood
Listening to others talk but never saying much,
That much which has already been said
And that much which will always be said,
The conversations never change
So it’s no wonder I can’t keep these dreams alive.