A child does not question its existence. 

Does not wonder how it came to be.

Does not ask why it is alive. 

A child does not hate.

Does not discriminate against another's gender or sexuality or color.

Children only know love.

And what we tell them. 

So why are we telling them hate?

We all have such a short time here. 

Yet we spend this time, 

Concerning ourselves with individuality.

Mortality.

Fame.

Image.

Wealth.

Concerning ourselves with 

Time. 

The time we have left.

The time we have wasted.

The time we wish to remember.

The time we wish to forget.

Time.

That which determines when we cease to exist. 

That which we cannot live without.

That which will inevitably kill us.

Children do not think about time. 

Time does not kill children. 

Time kills us,

Who sit up at night and think about past conversations.

Imagining heroic scenarios. 

We who watch the sun rise because we could not sleep. 

And who walk about hallways like the undead. 

We who will spend our, 

Time,

Tapping a screen.

Speaking without saying anything.

Typing,

I love you,

Without feeling anything. 

There is no feeling.

These wires that connect us,

These are not how love travels.

These are veins,

Carrying all the make-believe good nights and empty promises.

These wires that connect "us" they are-

Nothing more than wires. 

Stars amazed us when we were younger. 

Mystified us.

And now, if I were to ask you how full or empty the moon was last night you'd say- 

Hey Siri.

Exploration has been,

Confined to the things that Google can bring to us. 

Has been, reduced to only two dimensions.

"Beautiful",

Is an insult.

Depression, 

Is a personality trait.

Love,

Is a murder weapon.

War,

Nothing new.

Ignorance,

What is that?

And yet the world will keep turning,

And we will all keep lying.

And hating.

And cheating.

And crying.

And hurting.

And hoping.

For somebody to come save us.

And so we wait,

And time takes.

Time is killing us.

Time, is killing children.