There comes a place in every young man's life—
A place where that man doubts value, hates it,
Finds out his only real heroes were spite and strife,
And discovers that his only real friend is the pit.
Disturbed, unnerved, yet still moving, he is aimless,
He doesn't know where to turn, what to love,
What to burn; he sees only the world's shameless,
Blatant death mongering, from the wolf to the dove.
He never knew what to do about this kind of blue,
But he still tries, even though he fails, to go back—
Back to a place that right was right, true was true,
Instead finding only bitterness and hatred in the black,
A deadly combination for a soul as fragile as he.
My question, young man, is this: live or die, what'll it be?