Pessimist Poetry

I wish I could find the words to tell you exactly what I see, what I feel, what I think. No misunderstanding, no blurred semantics. You see, you seem as dead as the gods you praise. Gone. Numbed by what you call your life. Show me you're alive. Alive. Fuck your gods, they never gave me life. To my generation: I dare you to give me something else. Something more than this. Or have we given in? Gone. Numbed by what you call your life. Do you really think happiness will come from this?
In what direction do we scream and point our fingers? We, the Atheistic Missionaries, the Revolutionaries, the New Generation? Towards a world that doesnÃ,Â't even hear our words because we donÃ,Â't speak the same language? Or is it towards ourselves? How much rebellion is there in HardCore Punk these days? I dare you to be alive, however you do that.