curse this whole contrivance
where our pen perverts our thoughts
bastardizing our expression
into ostentatious dross
which, indeed, is most ironic
even now, i must abide
by the terms of its imposing
despite how it makes me writhe
were it only that i could resist
the pretense of the mind
set upon me with insistence
i am loathe not to comply
for the state of my affliction
disallows for deviation
from its ardent homeostatic
cognitive disposition
so beholden to its power
though emboldened by the hour
i am helpless to assert my will
and thus, i lay here, dour
Max, or Not 