Survival

Laying awake on the stained bed
of charcoal and blood
seems to be the ideal night
within this dream of lighting strikes and rain fall.

With each puncture into the ground, 
my brain crashes and has to begin again,
rebooting the system from the beginning.
No wonder why retaliation is lacking
within these thoughts.

Memories are lost with instant foreshadowing,
bones are broken because of the lack of calcium
and then the long, dark tunnel appears
with cars moving in and out 
as if it was an anthill filled
with busy ants trying to survive. 

I never understood the art of survival.
The survival of the fittest never appealed
because who defines "fit" or not. 
Suppose it was The Man,
The Men of all men 
that has the pen and paper
to write down the regulations
of what is proper and corrupt.

Then, the cage that you are in
begins to melt because of the 
radioactive mobs
that are just trying to find a way out.

Joining them seems pleasing,
but I think I'd rather
just kill The Man
myself.