Idyllic Thoughts

It’s the idyllic thoughts
That makes me idle.
While despair and abyss
Engage me in a hustle.
That’s how I know
Finding an itch
To scratch
Is much better
Than being hypnotized
In pleasant bewilderment
Of my fancy island.

It’s the infinite search
Of fitting in and belonging,
That exhausted my soul.
When, in truth,
All my tardiness
Is the result
Of engaging in
The unending quest
Itself.

It’s the figment of my imagination,
Telling me the etiquette of life
Is black and white.
Either this or that.
Absorbing or reflecting
Every other color
That sprung.
When, in reality,
Every propriety
Has a gray area
Of its own.

In my imagination
Where my idyllic thoughts dance,
Endless thoughts pry.
Unfathomable pursuits
Drench my whole being
To end
The demise of my existence.