So much of what I do seems desperate
And I trick myself, it’s fine.
But when it becomes time to rest it
Desperation comes back to my mind.
My mind is fearing, I’m crippled
By doubt and insecurity.
The effects of which have rippled
And my person is wracked with dis-ease.
To attempt to make sense of this madness
I construct theories from thoughts I’ve mined,
The ends of which is infinite sadness
When the conclusion is all that I find.
So back to this desperation
Which spins me around and around
And seeks for, but fails full formation
Of fair trees grown in solid ground.
I believe its a calling for journey,
For travel and experience.
A trip at which I’ve just hit the entry.
A future that is much more mysterious.