A boy of age seventeen, Brain not yet fully evolved, Plastered somewhere midway between boy and bachelor. What has he got to offer, Other than a movie ticket and a latte? What can one expect, From a fellow, who is lost in the mirror? All we ask for, all we long for, all we want... Is acceptance. Yet, some boys, at age seventeen, Are blinder than dingbats lurking in the overlaps of a cave, And duller than the butterknife that's been deserted in the back corner of your kitchen cabinet since 1999. Along with this, they talk. Talk is lousy, talk is sleazy, talk is worthless. For anyone can claim, That they are the best at a given thing. A polar bear can claim he can fly to the tip of the iceberg, A tadpole can claim she will transform into a fish, And a seventeen year old boy can claim that he is the best at absolutely everything. Tell me, what is the difference? And what...I write this with profound inquiry in my mind... What is the point?