Loose Lips of a Sinking Ship

I am America's cold,weather beaten son, driving through a field of writhing despondency. My tires are worn. My will is torn. My eyes are glued to an imaginary white horizon while the chaos around grows ever worse and ever more dangerous. Time rolls by and I fear that one day the circling carrion birds will suck the marrow from my bones, the sun will bleach my skull, my name will be forgotten to earth and sky and humanity, and still I move forward on rusty tracks of uncertainty. The coal that gives me strength, the driving momentum to a place I do not know, is slowly leaving; eaten by a thousand-eyed monster that never sleeps, only devours. Does my mother look upon me with the twinkle of pride, of love and dignity, that all my life I have been told was every man's God given right? No, she is hiding in thecracked mortar between the stones of justice. She is squeaking under the floor boards of a flawed yet ever present beast;the same beast that finds me in the deep, dark, dismal mines without a hot meal and lungs blackened from my struggle to make a life of my own. I do not ask for a miracle or a hand out or a gift. I do not ask for the watchful eyes of our overseers to glance the other way while I rape the land and steal men's hard earned crop. I ask only for a fair and clear chance to rid myself of these chains, to reach out into a promising world and carve out a hole in the cliff side to make my nest.

Fighting to draw together enough twigs and leaves and feathers to make my sturdy home, I near completion only to be drown by the cruel and cold crashing waves, and I slip into the dark abyss, forgotten and alone with no chance of redemption or return. Is mine not the strife of every young man or woman? All but the most priveliged, it seems, are being tossed aside by these rouge waves and although I now find myself not alone, my dead company brings with them no cheer and no second chances. This seems our fate: We walk along the sea floor, unable to die. We sulk along the sidewalks, unable to cry. We drive through the wasteland and meet our fates as the washed up, beat down, tired inheritants of a corrupt, broken system. But is their hope? Is their a silver lining to be found in this monsoon or are all the smiling faces bruised and bloody and the open arms of the world ripped off and lying at the feet of their deformed owners? Of these questions and countless others that have been or are going to be asked I have no answers. I only pray to a God whom I see no truth in to save me. I only pray that my tires do not go flat.