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.
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.