Throw collars to the wind

It's times like these, in the midst of sink or swim that I've enfolded.
Nouns and verbs in nights I seek to forget, and looked for eyes spying on a future less grim.
You don't argue with the wise, well-read or well- spoken.
Teach the younger that it's running legs are easily broken.

Lessons learned are scars that don't heal, but are always earned.
And there's no chance of seeing through the disguises when your only staring through holes torn and burned.
Sixteen years too many with collars thrown to the wind.
Left wondering if it's easier to buy design, or wallow in sin...

(And we are passing through love, like we're shedding older skin.)