by Maria Mena

Look at us now, Generation Next, Damaged somehow..About how we try our best, and we´re all the same, but that doesn´t make us right, and where do you turn and where do you sleep at night?

Look at us stare,tell us of what they wear. Dad gives you money, but he´s never there. And We cry out for love, Never get enough of that. Now you´re into Drugs, and all that other stuff.


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