The final letter you sent gave me papercuts and the pain stung softly all day long
Now I'm just left here wondering how people so young can have such sunken, tired eyes
Why the holes in your baggy trousers have spread up, to your arms and hands
I don't think that you're human: much closer to a barely living and breathing statistic
This isn't even irregular, more so the cries of a newborn teenager: he writes in blood, not ink
And the agony of the new generation, with the rates rising but that doesn't even make you think

© Sam Hunter