My growing disdain for any semblance of a productive life has grown far greater than I could have hoped.**
When once I embraced life with a wide-smiled, open-armed optimism, I have only been left with this inexorable malaise.
It is a personal strife I endure ever day. My existential outlook has collided with the nihilistic propaganda force fed to the multitudes at an alarming rate. The functions, gatherings or otherwise diminutive events of the more fortunate seem to have subsumed the necessity for a more literate or enlightened future.
The only way I see it fit to continue is routine. Routine is the leading most killer in human spontaneity. It also seems to be the leading most reason behind success. Not monetary success (although it can most certainly induce that outcome). I am talking about personal success, self-improvement, finding joy again in my most favourite and sought after past time.
I assume it is within routine where I can find this peace of mind I am searching for.
I assume this because my life has already been stricken by the deadly plight of a routine. One that has caused me to lose my footing. Rather than a routine of value and productivity, I have stumbled upon a routine of self-indulgence, disparagement, and an ever-growing urgency to carry out the most asinine tasks that no other would ever think to dwell on for more than a matter of minutes.
My personal strife is my mind.
My personal routine is my life.
Because of this, I have forced myself into solitary confinement, where my ritualized routine of the self becomes a ritualized journey towards complete insouciance.
We are the future, they proclaim.

Minute Michael upright sat, morningwise, donning the dayspring shine.** A squint-eyed Michael flip fumbled floorside, unmeaningly frolicking through a sunstained daze.
With armsthrough and torsocovered, a once morningshamed Michael, now shamecovered, left-footedly saunters kithenbound.
Downfaced, Michael straightback bends, greeted legpurringly by Mr. Muffin, a furlined feline.
Gentlefingered, fur runs digitthrough as the furlined feline gentlemews.
Forced faceward, Mr.Muffin tailwaggedly tethers Minute Michael, led by stomachsnarls. Michael, now kitchenside, lefthandly prepares morning rations, as gentlemews quickpaced form to snivelshrieks.
The hardpatienced furlined feline toothsharpedly and clawretractedly nibblebites Michael, indicating stomachsnarls his own.
Airfaced ceilingside, Michael quietyelps, handgropped ankleward.
Clearpointedly Mr. Muffin eyelocks Minute Michael.
Rationpreparedly, Michael bowlfills Mr. Muffin with furlined food.

I’ve once heard musings**
Of recitation reflecting an area
Of negligence that should
Never go forsaken.
Now, it is through my dismay
Which triggers my optimism
To lead me to believe this
Recapitulation has been
Extricated through a
Satirical voice.
However, in the event
That theses musings are
In fact, coming from
A discernible veracity,
Then I have done to you
The gravest disservice I would never
Dream to impart.
Allow this to act as my
Expression of regret
In this particular field
Of verbal lavishing.
Before the moment
You were my salacious secret
And preliminary to my yearning
For parallel mutual devotion
My capabilities of a
Tactile sense of normality
Were fleeting
Forever consigned to oblivion
Until the moment I
Allowed the craving to coalesce
With the collective.
It was then that I realized
The stimulus of my exuberance
Was not a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Rather, one brought on
When we lay entwined
Within one another.
Further musings have been vocalized,
Drawing sight upon the fact
I am twenty-one grams lighter
Than the commune.
Albeit, these musings have
Been satirical in merit,
The inherent truth
Is not controvertible.
Thus was the preceding case
To our amalgamation.
You are the sole vindication
I have a soul.

If there has ever
Been inequity
In my necessity to
Opulent you with
My own verbal musings
I do hope this
Can act as verbatim
If there should be
Any negligence within
This particular field of
Expertise.

At this particular juncture**
You are my salacious secret.
My impulse and my desire
Yearn for parallel,
Yet specious devotion.
Regrettably, my insight forbids
Integrating the desire with the
Collective.
Despite a substantial reciprocal fervor
And prolonged vulnerability
Which has led to my proficiency
In an art form so intricate,
My desire is transposed
And I am ensnared and subdued
By reality.
For now, you will remain
My salacious secret,
Until I accumulate the
Audacity required
To allow for such
A course of action.
Within my reverie
Is where I recede
Where my impulse and desire
Reign.

They say the neon lights**
Don’t often burn that bright
Splintered from my urethra
Swollen in this hex
Devoured by the Eve
Brought to justice by the guilt
And when they said
That all I had to give
Wasn’t worth a fitful look
I’ve been duped by sedative
The artificial power
Has swollen in my head
Wrapped around an ice pick
Can be found my fleeting shell

As our defunct cohesion
Masticates my head
Disintegration will lay me to my bed.

That sweet nectar
Lingers on my tongue
An inebriated hour of reverie genuine
A claustrophobic detainment
Incarceration with power windows
As your effigy is left behind
These shiv grasped hands
Awaiting exertion, transpierce my eyes
Upon introspective re-inspections
Ichor transmogrifies
Necessitate me
Remain vacant here

As our defunct cohesion
Masticates my head
Disintegration will lay me to my bed.

Downward spiral**
In rejected denial
Put on a duplicitous smile
(the camouflage of conspiracy)
Ruminate on whether or not
This is some preconceived fallacy.
Realize why all those
Feelings have been encapsulated.
Congratulations
Assimilation into the crowd
Has been instituted.
Fed by lyrical persuasion,
The line points down
On this linear equation.