Held Fast

The gym turnstile, a cold metal bar,

it locked up tight, like a door that won't budge.

I pushed, I shoved, I went too far,

my shoulder sore, holding a grudge

against the silent, unmoving gate.

People lined up, a small, quiet queue,

waiting for me to just make it through.

But it held, unyielding, nothing new

about this feeling, this sense of overdue.

No click, no give, just a solid wall,

and the thought that some days, you just can't win.

Can't get through it, can't move at all.

Just stuck here, where I begin

to forget the way out, the way in.