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Another Wasted Dream
As teenagers, we are all underdogs. Feeling like we're important, feeling like we're all meant for something better than what we have. The irresponsible dreamers of a post-modern age. We are all the bullied, all hide secrets. Everyone has been shattered like glass by bullets, or hurled insults like daggers. Slashing wrists, slashing confidence. Everyone falls for the wrong person, everyone wishes they have something else. Falling in love with naivety, with other fools, falling out of love with ourselves. We are simultaneously the beaten, the damned and the protagonists. We are meant to know nothing, supposed to be reckless, destined to etch words onto our arms; words of hope, of trust, memories, hurt, pain, fear. We are meant to fear the future, to pretend we believe in fairytale endings and pretty weddings and good education and a big house with a large garden. We are supposed to pretend to know nothing.
We are everything. We are the underdogs, the over-dogs. Whatever we want.
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