The words feel the same despite a new surrounding.
As if the things I touch are never what they seem.
An energetic vortex that swirls around compounding
What I sense is real into the heady vapors of a dream.
Yet what I write stays clear, the breach of an illusion,
An alleviation of the pressure that's being imposed.
I'm resisting the effects of this pathetic delusion...
My mind is the protector that keeps me composed.
A mere thought barricades me from this vacuous veil,
A simple idea that induces the intellectual protection;
That which confuses, reduces, and invites me to fail
Is proved useless in light of my poetic connection.
I illuminate with words that which hides from me,
Hoping that I write enough to open eyes to see.