Perfect. Plane.

We live in a metered society, Not part time paid parking poles implying a particular price you pony up to pretend pedant. 

A part of a predetermined populous center for which you wouldn’t give a damn for if the patriots, bruins or Celtics didn’t play there.

A 17 story building pervaded wall to wall like a Reno brothel filled with hoes.

A 60 block square area you can’t afford to live in and every day stare at millennium towers telling yourself “someday”

Crated cattle craving champagne 

Cratering our contempt but content In our own cull. 

And we all know.
We know it’s all a lie but live and go along enjoying the thrill.
And we love to tell others money doesn’t matter when you’re never going to raise a family or even yourself on last nights garbage.
We love misnomer and mistruth when it doesn’t apply to a person personally.
We love to be “the bigger man” but words are the fallacy of humanity and we’re all just here falsifying our existence to each other. 
I’m done beating my own drum and predicting permanently pending pleasantries

Praying to be positioned peacefully on a perfectly plane plateau 

Tiny Boxes; Drab or Grey??

We are often asked write much like we’re told to liveA certain style, rhythm;

An acuteness for precision.
We’re goaded to cheer and gawk at this tiny little box.

This tiny drab box.

This minuscule container far to small for anything I’m willing to gleefully represent.

Not now or any other time.
And believe me I’ve tried a thousand times to attach my name to boring and plain but when the clock strikes ten here I am.
Abstract.

Undefined.

Unwound like a tether ball incapacitated on the ground,

And I can’t help but to attack the intellectual challenges of my nine to five because the truth is my day to day is drab and gray.
I try to prescribe to menial and stable,

An unexciting white picket fence play it safe way of life,

But when the clock strikes ten here I am slowly meandering my way back until I’m surrounded by chaos.
What can I say I simply enjoy the bedlam way.
For so long I felt out of place,

Pulled between two sides not realizing there is not simply one proper directionality,

Not knowing it’s okay to admire and deeply desire a round room over a box.
It’s okay to rearrange the the frame society implies we should live life within. 

I’m done staring at tiny boxes and trying to fit in.

When the Clock Strikes Ten

We are often asked write much like we’re told to live
A certain style, rhythm;
An acuteness for precision.

We’re goaded to cheer and gawk at this tiny little box.
This tiny drab box.
This minuscule container far to small for anything I’m willing to gleefully represent.
Not now or any other time.

And believe me I’ve tried a thousand times to attach my name to boring and plain but when the clock strikes ten here I am.

Abstract.
Undefined.
Unwound like a tether ball incapacitated on the ground,
And I can’t help but to attack the intellectual challenges of my nine to five because the truth is my day to day is drab and gray.

I try to prescribe to menial and stable,
An unexciting white picket fence play it safe way of life,
But when the clock strikes ten here I am slowly meandering my way back until I’m surrounded by chaos.

What can I say I simply enjoy the bedlam way.

For so long I felt out of place,
Pulled between two sides not realizing there is not simply one proper directionality,
Not knowing it’s okay to admire and deeply desire a round room over a box.

It’s okay to rearrange the the frame society implies we should live life within.
I’m done staring at tiny boxes and trying to fit in.

UnstoppableĀ 

Years to surpassIt took a few years just to lay on the grass,

It took a couple years to get over you.
A whirlwind year and a half blew past fast and I tried but I could not grab ahold of my past.
A whirlwind past that blew by fast.
And honestly I miss it,
We drew our own constellations.

We directed the breeze.

We made it rain on days we decided not to attend the beach.

We ate burritos and made party rockets at 4am.

We picked our moments and decided our fate.

We lived continuously even past the break of day.

Franconia’s Notch

I don’t know for sure, But somewhere along Franconia’s notch, imagine the crisp 65 Fahrenheit air and calm, sun filled shadiness it exists in.
Somewhere along franconia’s notch I imagine there’s a perfect little spot.
Unknown, but resonant none the other.

It’s platitude unbecoming.

Its magnitude revealed.

Unveiled in twos.

Unpinned from our minds by the 4 square spreadsheet that is time.
Sometimes I listen to phish’s pebbles and marbles and sit back to reflect,

Wondering if indeed the marble in the sand came from my hand.

Sad.Satisfied.Bodies

These dram corridors,Subtly textured with what I would call a hopeful despair,

So many content bodies set to exist in suspension.
And I walk like the room is slow motion,

Trying not to show my contempt for the self destructively content.
Satisfied. Sad. Bodies.
And I in no way mean to demean I just struggle when I’m in the presence of dreamless beings.

People living like they’re in a perpetual state of shock with no foreseeable stop. 
Remind in five years that corporate America is only a pit stop

Delusional? Proper?

I’m so lucky.
Honestly not many people can contain this propensity for absurdity I display and remain so connected to the daily trivialities of existence.
I stay grounded through both the things I’ve attained and the things I am still missing.
And while I associate with few reasonable people I find most to be at least a modicum more reasonable than me.
I’m the most logical poor decision maker you could ever meet. 

I’ll justify that shit in some diluted vision of absurdness and it will almost make sense until you realize what it is I am actually saying. 
My words are sometimes few but the continuity of my mental reflection is propense.  
Sometimes I over articulate in a purposeful way that confuses. Causes the reader to matriculate to a certain state from which they eventually regale in their subjective vision.
Sometimes in inebriation I’m self conscious of my own reflection and sensitivity until I realize these are just words and it’s 4 in the morning.
Sometimes it’s scares me to write and equally scares me to delete even a single sentence of that truth.
In the simplest of terms sometimes I barely even know me, myself, I. 
People are afraid to confront their fears and that’s understandable because most of us can’t even face each other.
People enjoy a quite commonly limited construction of what they perceive to be proper society. 

But the only proper society to which I apply is the one in my mind.

I apply to the complexities I wrestle within me.
So many people put so much focus on external environment like a conglomerate facing organizational or economic change. 
So many people construe their validity to be something that is deemed by external variables or prom queens.

Ponder. Wonder

I live my life in a lot of ways from which I don’t profit and from which most people, Simply just don’t get.I tend to exist in a certain directionality that I dont even fully understand. 

So many times I’ve been underestimated because i tend to speak in abstracts. 

But what most people don’t see is that while I might act all that on occasion my real internal vision is completely lacking.

And while there’s truth to the fact that I dress well because my job requires that, 

There is also truth in that it helps to hide my internal battle.
The materialism I display might be partly who I am and what I like,

But to say I didn’t present myself in such a way to hide my pain would be a lie.
To say that i exist in a strictly harmonious sense would be ridiculous.
And while I don’t really feel the same these days, to say I wasn’t shaped from a previous sense of worthlessness would be less than true.
If I’m to be totally honest I spent a long while pondering.