They March Toward Our Doors With Gilded Hands, Not to Knock but to Pound

It is an age not of apathy
But of the appearance of apathy
We wear that mask because we care so much
About changing this world for the better
Yet have been sent to the office for questioning the teacher
And sent to our rooms for questioning the parent
Who tells us very plainly that our despair is just a phase
And we'll soon grow out of trying to sympathize

It is an age not of consumerism
So much as dissatisfaction
We grab and tug and steal and build up and hoard
Not because of the objects themselves
But because somewhere along the line
"Sharing is caring"
Became: protect what's yours
And be responsible enough to know how to gain it
Not to use it well
But to be used by it
So you don't have to find out
Things could be better
Or that they're actually much worse

There is a way to do things, you see
And happy people do things a certain, or so I've been told
Though I'm not sure I've ever met a happy person
And if I have, I really don't think they were doing things that way, anyway
And honestly, if happiness means playing the game
Forgetting the point
And forgetting that I have a point
Then why would I want to be happy

But it's not an age of love
Yet.