The nuts
and the bolts
of your automatic habits
programmed scowls and slowing reflexes
keep you
matching wits with no one
every night.
And you keep
slipping
back into your 6-month rut
with your cold sneer,
hands in pockets,
your shrinking bank account
and swelling gut...
The Mountain Lines meander,
you're just killing time and brain cells.
Ashy days are tasting bland.
Bus routes circle back on themselves
like your footsteps every ******* night,
this town will raise its hand,
you'll retreat into familiar flight.
Cringe
'cuz it's so easy.
Cringe
at what you have become.
Come back on your loop repeating.
Potential's mocked.
You're numb and deaf and dumb.
And you've never surrendered.
But that's not the same as winning.
Pinning hopes on snapping out
of it and sleeping hearts on sleeves.
Heavy footsteps every ******* night,
a walking metronome
passing cross-streets just to pass the time.
Your dull,
aching eyes
that you peer through every sunset--
programmed scowls squinting through preset acts--
keep your
dulling wits all silent
every night.
And you'll keep
walking through days like turnstile gates
and send each night on down the line.
Send each night on down the line.
