Squeezing the Middle Man

For his very last drop

I find myself caught in the middle.
In the eye of the storm, yet, it's anything but calm.
A middle class middle child in middle america earning median wage.
Being pulled, from both sides, apart.
No pity, no mercy.
Like a link broken,
Stretched apart and torn.
No representation,
Just a stepping stone, gridlocked,
With a sock in the mouth and a hole in the wallet.
Battered and drained, spiritually anemic.
Confined to the dungeons of life,
Because I would not play their game.
They banished me to the valley of skulls.
Now, I live as an exile, a cultural pariah.
Wandering the desert.
Where only the debtors follow,
Flocking like fat vultures.
Replenished only beyond the thorns of a cactus and beside the scorpion's sting.
A vagabond,
Mocked,
Trampled,
Spat on.
But I still have my God.
I still have my God.