whose?

youth is such a beautiful illusion of chance let yourself rot there make-believe all along that life is a flower to pick revolve around in sweet dreams soft smoking makes you weep in the cinematic memories of your youth you believe tomorrow will render you flowers but dear child, why is it when you're growing up you're forced to tolerate all the systemic demises, and not to learn about yourself? task upon task, lies upon lies, chain of obedience, commission and taxes, you let these things dismantling you. where are the flowers now? on whose hand you're working on? and to whose you'll give your best? were you truly seized your day? while time waiting for none?