It is so boring yet alluring,
So strong and weak in just a nick of time,
To drive all night without hesitation,
To come back in the morning with a broken spine.
To switch the role of a conqueror to victim,
And juggle stories to make up a perfect line.
In retrospect, come up with better answers,
To realize it's all a waste of time.
It is a moment of complete misunderstanding,
To fill the cranium with what is wiser to be off.
There is an end that points to the beginning of a new axis,
It turns upwards, completing the dimension of a cartboard box.

It is not gullible as paper, still able to be molded and reshaped.
One day a hopeless sufferer surrenders
And talks oneself out of the noxious place.
Outside the box, imagination blossoms peacefully
Without the coerced necessity to play within the walls.
New tales embark on unexpected journeys
Demanding the narrator be an explorer to behove.
To find out better moments in decisions.
To finish pointless crushing of the bones.
There is a start that shifts the living
After the point of no return.