Repitition is a plague ,
The prevention of a human ,
Or a lack of lust for life.

In this state , he feels like a man in a box,
No combat to his humbled silent darkness,
As time has desensitised him,
Nothing new, nothing safe, nothing shocking,
He lives in his mould of content unfulfillment,
An existance of cheap pleasure and uneducated understandings ,
Inside , he knows this isn't a desirable climax,
But at this stage, the box is the only solace he grasps,
The box he has kept himself in, has taken his time and chance,
At a happy experience, that most of us consider a certainty,
To him it is everything, an unrecieved gift,
His false imagery convinces him to stay in a pattern,
A pattern that will only lead him to an evential dead end.