What kind of answer do you give the man,
Who's holding down his foot.
Pedal depressed to the metal,
Frightening, he'd notice if he could.
But a long straight ahead,
Does not give chance for pause,
He's pushing one-hundred and thirty,
Reckless abandon without cause.
Careening toward nameless objectives,
With blinders on the sides,
Self-employed, relentless conductor,
He's done this his whole life.
The moment of clarity is a terror,
Of awesome proportions.
When your breaks aren't connected,
He can't proceed with caution.
I am tired of going a million miles an hour,
All the time.
I am terrified of the crash, of the wreckage I am,
Cause when you’re a steam engine rolling off the tracks,
A stop at the station feels right.
Shovel the coal,
This chariot is hot and hungry,
And it has no intention of
Letting it's occupant free.
The beast is the mind,
Racing thoughts unaware of time.
The only way to stop on a runaway track,
Is a catastrophic end of the line.
When momentum ends,
He finds himself on the pavement,
Earns his rest,
On this ground.
Asphalt hot against his cheek.
If he could close his eyes,
This peace he could keep.
Give in to the wounds,
He could finally stay asleep.
And through all this objection,
He crawls out of that heap.
Hands cemented behind the wheel,
This peace he cannot keep.
Mangled the machine roars to life,
And carries him on his way,
And as he gains the speed he knows
He'll crash again some day.