Quietly, a melancholy fog hangs triumphantly over the room
Where I always sit, illuminated by the night sky
Thinking, or trying to, for lack of a better idea
I’m too proud of nothing to admit my own fraud
Self-proclaimed charismatic, enough to warrant confidence
Self-proclaimed smart enough not to even try

As expected, I’m flailing helplessly on stable ground
Running in desperate joy on the playground of the world
I Recklessly deliberate all, but I’m not quite analytical yet
Harboring nothing from the beautiful tortures of secret contemplation
Transcending change, leaving everything far, far behind
In the placid wake of my continuous banality
Only to build misery upon the resulting absence

Lacking purpose, randomly digressing in hopeful futility
Lost with a map, and unable to use it, I’m skeptical of any help
Procrastinating in the thorough search for anything I can find
Surviving luxurious ease, avenging personal transgression
I’m obnoxiously critical with occasional benevolent bursts
Caught up in the hazy illusion of clear euphoria
Pondering the difficult next move, in midst of a life-sized leap of faith
Or a leap of… something