the exhibitionist

buildings collapse to the beats of our heart
as the old people die
like VHS and Mozart,
and now the whole world has seen
(because YouTube was there)
the fate of our dreams
meet the heights of despair.
since this stage is too small
to house our random thoughts
we have no choice at all
but to blow the world apart.
we are so consumed with self
but, really, can you blame us?
there are cameras everywhere
exhibitionism made us.
now we blog our every waking hour
to an audience of none,
while we step on every flower
saying: "there will grow another one"
because this generation's like a vulture
that, to the scene of the crime, flies
the assassination of our culture
and the day that true art dies.