Coming of age will kill us all

Can we make it through the big dick world? Before the black lung
kills us, could we utter one last sentence profound enough
to remind us of the joyous swing set
remind us of the pride in sand castles, standing brave and vulnerable
before the approaching waves?
     These are things I ask when I should be counting sheep.
I usually get bored after 100. In the end,
all of the numbers are pointless. Just another distraction
distracting us from grazing green grass. Does no one remember
that math was boring?

     Now, the head no longer barters with
the offering heart. Thoughts become cold and calculating. Producing
well devised evil plans acted out in super villain fashion. Speaking words
radiating kryptonite green, and causing stable hearted damsels to taste
sweat salted with distress.
     The super hero intention once filled the soul like the holy ghost.
But it takes a strong man to pump divine light through these mortal veins.
I am not one of those.
It turns out justice is a too complex shade of gray.