Untitled No. 3

The train ride in the morning is slow and somber.
A detached reminder of loneliness...
The dead have faces but no names...
Riding to our next cage...
Desire lacking maybe protracting...
full of subconscious rage...
No one ever wants to wake so early...
Or be forced to smile for someone else's profit without their coffee drugs and bagel doggie treats...
Were slaving at the capitalist dream...
Doing it for that house in the hills...
Lusting for a life in our head...
Rat racing for peanuts...
I call it a morbid existence...
I call it the walking dead...
Alarm clock to torture...
Auschwitz cars to the work camp...
These colorful buildings only mock us in our consent of stupidity and conformity...
We sense the master at work yet get blinded by the colorful media posters...
We want the dream... But live the lie...
we are the next great generation of slaves...
Building the bomb that endangers our offspring...
Feed on the hype...
The hype fuels the masses...
The masses fuel the cause and the cause at the end of the day...
Is all in your wet soaked dreams...