The Loser's Game: Fighting With Reality

 

You already moved in, you moved in at age three,

And the door isn't locked, yet there's few who go free.

Here the praise of the crowd is the bread that you chew,

Here you dodge every blame like it's hunting for you.

And this costs you yourself, and that cost is right there,

And it costs you the ones you were tending with care,

But that second one hides, and it hides very well,

For you did it for them, that's the story you tell.

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But that house has a wall, and it bears all the weight,

And it isn't of timber and it isn't of slate.

It's your willingness, yours, to insist and demand,

That reality bend to the shape you have planned.

Pull that wall from its place and the whole thing comes down,

Every room, every rule, every crown in that town.

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When you fight with what is, then you lose, and you lose,

And you lose it one hundred percent of the time,

So the loss isn't bad luck, the loss isn't crime,

It’s from fighting itself that you get the blues.

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Now the fight has a fuel, and it goes by “should not,”

And its brother, plain “should,” and they're all that you've got.

Then you argue with what has already occurred,

Shaking your fist at the sky, you demand the last word.

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But the “should” has two meanings, so slow down and see:

Use a screwdriver, please, if you want the screw free,

Eat your greens and your body will likely do well,

Those are “shoulds” you can test, and the testing will tell.

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But another “should” hides in the very same sound,

Be wary, be careful, or you’ll be upside down.

It will mean: if you do just the way that I say,

Then for sure and for certain there's praise on the way.

But beware if you don’t, there’s a stick that I wield,

And my blame or sad face will bypass any shield.

Strip the crowd from that “should” and there's nothing beneath,

Just a hook with no bait and a smile with no teeth.

​

When you fight with what is, then you lose, and you lose,

And you lose it one hundred percent of the time,

So the loss isn't bad luck, the loss isn't crime,

It’s from fighting itself that you get the blues.

​

So here's how you can tell, and it isn't a chore:

Take the audience out, nix the claps and the roars.

If it still carries news of a thing you could do,

It's assessment, and useful, and honest, and true.

But if nothing is left when the crowd is removed,

It was judgment, and only, and now it is proved.

And a “should” can hold both, so untangle the two,

One is pointing at facts, one is pointing at you.

​

Now there's one more new room, and the door has a name,

It's the fight with what is, it's the never-won game.

But so many things fit there, and that is the clue,

For it isn't a room that you just wander into.

It's the frame and the floor and the beams that you had

In the house that you built out of “good” and of “bad.”

​

You can argue with mountains and weather and day,

You can shout at the sky till your hair has gone gray.

Or you set the fight down, and you open your eyes,

And you work with the world in its actual size.

​

When you fight with what is, then you lose, and you lose,

And you lose it one hundred percent of the time,

So the loss isn't bad luck, the loss isn't crime,

It’s from fighting itself that you get the blues.