Gen. Y

I'm severely crunched for time today, so here's a quick poem for your enjoyment.

We are the inevitable roses that shoot from cement cracks,
Not all white. 
A new race of linguists, 
Our highly analytical minds translating every nuance 
From a language of pure egotism. 
We’re vain, colorblind philanthropists;
Uninformed and opinionated
Craving fame as well as infamy
Obsessed and appeased within the marriage of ambition and assumption.
Naiveté is our elixir,
Those without it break quickly and cleanly. 
We are young 
And we are roaring, 
Making art and making do
With your pacifying diversion, your shiny new toy. 
The final frontier is no longer the heavens. 
We will kill you with your own weapon.
We are Generation Y.