A Poem I wrote about coming out of adolescence.

20 years old, whats my direction?
Wheres my annual inspection they gave me back in school?
Am I a fool because I can't see my reflection as a man, an instrumental mind or tool?
This conception of life only breeds frustration not light,
because this rush of responsibility to be whatever I want to be,
something not nothing, successful, individual, its killing me.
Independence is bills, and problems, and work.
It's not your style, lifestyle, or worth.
But something is hard, and lacks compassion along the way,
and rations your desire to feel life everyday.
Those passions that sparked fire in genius teenage brains are extinguished by pacifyers and responsibility.
Disguised from your eyes and your mind closed so wide
we look for media to pacify our lives.
So addicted to distraction stimuli not worth reaction,
a poor substitute for freedom of the soul
because in so long I have not felt whole.
Theres just something about those times of dark grey smoke
that uncovered my eyes but leaves me now a wreck.
Because I felt so much more productive being so called self destructive
than I do when I am cashing in my check.
Am I brainwashed into thinking financial security
will let my worries be in vain?
Or can my dreams be my goal, my direction make me whole,
and my life, an imitation of soul?