I never asked to join the rat race.
But being a cognizant participant of the
perpetual scramble
I've noticed
it seems
we're always neck-and-neck,
nose-and-nose--
it's me!
No, *******--
it's you--you're winning--oh,
wait--it's me again!
You!
Me!
Him!
ME!
you,
him, me, you...
Is this a marathon we're supposed to sprint?
Are  humans even capable of doing that?
Or... hamsters?
I slow down and become a fat ******* lump,
moving slowly, and yet somehow,
there you are beside me still.
There is our row of hamsters wheels,
and here is our imaginary race
to a finish that exists in an industrial dream.
The soul resides in the breath
we can never catch
as we are racing--
You're WINNING,
I'm winning!
You, me, you, him, her, me... again.
And again.
And again.
For efficiency's sake
we race in a row.

She's too tired to cry
So instead she fake smiled....

She grew tired--
Not of other people,
But herself.
She grew tired of herself.

She tried and tried,
Not knowing how put her life together,
She gave up on herself
And slowly blood dripped down her wrists.

Tired, sometimes of life
Of trying to be a good wife
Tired of giving in
To cater to your whim
Dancing in trepidation
to the original sin
A battle of the sexes
That nobody can win.