~~~Hitting the Wall~~~
by Atlas Roark

=ve got nothing to lose,
you=ve got nothing to give.
=ll keep pulling us down,
toward the holes where we live.
Now try pulling us up,
now life=s half-spilling your cup.
Time has ways of filling it up
with what=s cynically
left when what=s right
too much resembles what=s wrong.
Do all your impressions belong to
grown children in songs?
Who decided to chooseB
is it freedom or booze?
The sun or the muse?
Can you win when you lose?
Can you conclude
the price that you pay is seldom
just enough?
It=s often so much
fucking rat-race-running more.
Let=s settle the score,
make nothing but lore,
and choose chaos galore.
And when avoiding a chore
you can see what comes
casually walking through that
so elusive, and so exclusiveB
this so damn reclusiveB door.
Treadmills remain attached to the floor.
The things that I hear,
while holding metal-wrapped beer,
seeing past years in the mirrors,
sure make the circling laps seem
to push the fogB
exposing all pink, inflated hogs
using people as logs
to fuel their political fire.
The warmth of the liar,
in telephone wires,
keeps himself forever
responding from both ends.
But feeling depends
on the institute=s trends;
and pallid, contrived humility.
Amassing to make this
tremendously-grey futility:
A clean, half-feigned servility.
They=ve got nothing to gain.
We=ve got nothing to lose.
Let=s give pleasure to pain.
Come now.  It=s time that you choose.
Come join in the game.
Keep forgetting to blame
a distorted sense of self.
The phantoms are stealth,
when you=re stuck on the shelf.
Do they awaken the dust?
Cover your instincts with trust,
make sure to join us
and we=ll hunt with a lust
that keeps us circling round;
finding things to keep down.
This raging fire=s the sound,
leaving our subtlety un-found
as the wizard=s light leads us
complacently by the hand.
Subservient bands,
and the system that stands
can comfort a far too troubled sense
of invented direction.
When, like muscles, we tense
the energy of the suspense
climbs swiftly to fall to the floor.
Implore what=s ignored.
Well, how about one more?
What you already think,
as you=re sipping that drink,
is truly the link
to what=s now,
and forever in ink.
And when you=ve gone and finally hit the wall,
and after all, there=s nothing left to do but fall, and crawlB
when after all the engines have stalledB
will your knees withstand the scraping?