The last of the warriors in me died today.
They put up a good fight
against fear, hate, and depression.
But they threw their hands up in defeat today
and the captain hung himself.
I struggled to go on without them,
But my fingers gracing this punch clock
Like a lovers gentle touch
Has destroyed my very soul
And made me long for the end.
This is not the end.
For if it were, there would be more singing.
This is the middle.
Nothing new,
Nothing old,
Just the every day grind.
I pray that this place burns down.
The only issue with that dream,
Is that my warriors won't help me escape this time.
For they are POWs in a pointless conflict.
The spider has spun her web around me.
And her venom is numbing my spine.
It's almost blissful,
This enslavement to the venom of necessity.
This is not the end,
But it feels like i have reached the end of me.
Their boots are on my head
And I can no longer fight.
This is the day,
This is the nightmare.
This is the nightmare.
This is the day.