The Rat Race Poem by David Johnson

Alive, at what cost?
What strange steps these humans take.
My tired hand squeezes my tired face.
My eyes fall on black, and the darkness I taste.
I'm tired of this body
because I see it worn by others.
I see them disconnect from its true design.
I watch and I ache.
I see them march blindly
like mice leading eachother,
without glasses or a clue.
All of these poor mice
always marching
so that bland cheese may
fill their bland souls.