Howl - AAV

This is what I see. Kinda bleak but hopefully honest. I'd love some feedback. I feel the grammar is pretty shitty so help with format would be nice.

My Version of “Howl”by Allen Ginsberg

I saw the best minds of my generation
dwindle their brain cells to puddles of septic waste
ending their existence because of succession to the moment,
leaning against disorders and hangups to sustain themselves for the next
parental crackdown and punishment,
using Xanac and cocaine as means of coping;
not even, to party, not even to experience or write or craft something,
anorexic, stringy haired hipsters with massive sunglasses trying to score blow
because it made them seem relevant,
neon painted manes and skin wrapped in bright skinny jeans yelling about how much their lives sucked,
inadvertently using their appearance as license to have open therapy,
straight – edge became a fad no more than wearing cut-off shorts with pockets jutting out at the thighs became a summer staple,
kids took on ideals of assuming the position given to them by the media,
we don't realize we do, some are coherent in the process of consuming the tripe given to us through strategic superficial tactics.
A television, magazine, an album can all be subjective if you adhere to your own naked opinion, whatever that may be. Can we craft an honest one anymore? Do we keep stealing your buddy's philosophies subconsciously or are we present in out regurgitation of these fabrications?
Seeing grown men stumble and piss in trash cans because of cheap box wine seemed routine,
watching women deny their self-martyr habits and signs of blatant alcohol abuse seemed like an average Sunday,
young teens believing this was alright,
secluding, desensitizing, hiding, running, wasting, breathing,
young'ens residing behind closed doors discussing stories of meaningless sex and lack of will or passion in a task they commit,
who believed life would never curb stomp their hearts into mangled shards of resentment,
who glanced at mirrors, gazing at rigid cuts on wrists and thighs and throats and ankles for the sheer hope that a by-standard would creep inside from behind a door or peep in a window,
who denied all self-deprecating actions of snorting Oxy or drinking kerosene,
who slept in backyards tents in the pouring rain while still drunk on whiskey and wasted on lost time and hours of contemplation,
who ran through streets deranged on Pixy stixs, cussing, spitting, smoking, exhaling, choking, on the smog from the polluted river,
who resided in Walmart, sitting on big box commodities playing games with the onlookers below pointing and laughing at the unassuming masses,
who stole for mere sport and fun and imitation and prowess and rank,
who smoked cigarettes in social settings like flys flocking to a sad glowing carcass,
who believed to soak in culture was to regurgitate the teaching of what they were exposed to in well lit, confided buildings with glossy walls harboring the trimmed elite,
who's buildings stood proudly with arrogant fancy as planes circumvented their way through the sky toward a new reckoning for a new millennium for a new mindset for a new set of panic attacks for a new pair of health problems for a new pair of broken hands to a set of crying children without mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, grandmothers, grandfathers, neighbors, friends because of the world's hate,
who walked aimlessly on the sides of roads waiting for a break from a young blonde with an abnormally huge heart,
who treats a former coke fiend with care and compassion,
who chuckles, laughs, and whispers secrets of her lop-sided mentality in her basement hoping he gives a shit about her psychosis,
who smokes her up, gives her a forty, leans in and talks theory with her,
who gives her Streelight, Difranco, Duvekot, Teleportation, and the makings in between,
who experiences Ginsberg, Smith, more Cash, more Dylan, Kerouac, Palahniuk, and vivid strange ideas that seem awkward and incomprehensible,
who reintroduces Amos, her lyrics, her words, her syllables, the simple thought,
Anyone can have a deep thought.
Who sees children as hopeful beacons of possible, tangible better people for a desecrated world,
“Will it fall apart?”
“Could it fall apart?”
“Do we let it fall apart?”
who's thoughts spiraled and circled as they examined the makings of this reality,
who's only idea on how to live is to live with prosperity
who's mentality was to reject the vain ideas to not abide by a crutch.
Depression, suicide, the lot of it is but a cop out.
Survive the moment.
Breathe what's here
Reject all bullshit attempts
To live is what we will do
To stand strange is what they will do
These are some strange days indeed