been feeling out of luck, or in a funk.  or like a wanderer with a broken pickup truck.  a hitchhiker stuck in a rut or the feeling that you get right before you've been struck.  

we've taken names when we conquered this place and later sold them to slaves for minimum wage.  your hate remains the same even when you have love entering your veins at a staggering pace.   now i know why your name is tied to a face i can't quite place as I remember all those shots I used to keep my memory erased.

there's no compassion for passion, no rest for the wicked, no waking for the altruists who've stayed away from stigma.  no place for complacency, no words for the mute.  no changing places now, except for the resolute.  

there's no home for the tired and no plots for the conspired.  no truth for the useless, no downfall for the liars.