Brought to a boil.
Surrounded by snakes, so I recoil.
Trying to get in touch, with roots,
Buried in soil.

Severed from salvation,
Every lucid step,
A dreaded sensation.
My only consolation is getting lost in my imagination.

Sick of expectations,
Obligations, and motivations.
I forsake the guise,
No longer seeing blind,
Like the complacent.
I make my soul sing,
And embark on planar navigation.

Star struck, by the façade,
Sick of living a charade.
Inspired by the insipid,
And starting to see thru the fog.