Gut level, below it all. 
                                      Out of duty - just here. 
                                      Feeling like a knife's being twisted 
in       the hole of how it is. 
                                      False hope, an inch of pride 
                                      That died when I left to hide from non 
stop battering 
                                      Of conditioned opinion. 
                                      Rest assured but not assured, 
                                      All is well, 
                                      But I think we've dealt with the fear 
                                      For far too long. 
                                      Unborn suffer the norm.
     Born to this-I think not!
   I stand against till the shit drops. 
                                      We see all but do nothing, 
                                      In the hole of "How it is"