To be in youth
Is like a butterfly,
Trying to reach out
For the golden sky,
But failing every time.

To be so young
Cannot be described.
It is forever unclear,
Racing unsuccessfully against
The test of time.

To feel so small
Like a broken-winged swan,
First so graceful
Then so shattered,
Is truly depressing.

The idea of being so minuscule,
To be wiped off the
Behemoth bulletin,
Will push into your heart
Until it cracks
Into disaster.

Someday, somehow,
Under the blanket of clouds,
Desperation in youth can be
Pushed away from us with
The fingers of
A gigantic bucket of hope.