Idealism

Idealism:
That cleansed reality which exists
Outside of this cocoon of blind conformity
To unjust and unreasonable pseudo-truths.

In daunting search of cruel idealism,
I have become a slave to myself.
One that subjugates to you,
And yet lusts you, your intellect.

If only I could escape from myself,
But would I want to?

This tread, a burden be to me.
It is an anguish to my soul;
A collage of unseen mirages and unreal oasis’.

This excruciating walk,
This journey without end,
This haunting memory of the future,
All these days at end, a sojourn, a destiny.

Each step is a step forward
By choice.
Each minute is a progression
By necessity.

I have become but a beacon of hurt,
Seeking after truth.
Setting the mark, and
Adamantly zooming in on it.

Being intransigent,
Sprinting forth my hopes (and theirs).
Perhaps being scoffed at,
Bearing the woes of naysayers.

Trying to live a dream,
Convincing them to understand; reasoning.
Yet, mirroring it from me to them;
To the ignorant them.

Oh sweet agony!
Yet this pain tires me not,
And when this corrosive spiritual acid
Renders me unconscious, cadaveric,

In my lucid, surreal dream,
My being glides, recursively meanders
with the free wind.
Over madness, lies, contradictions, and ugliness,
To the sea, to the foamy waters of solace,
The eternal heralder of hope,

There I long to dwell,
But I know that I cannot;
That I must not.

And there when I am at harmony with myself,
I soliloquize: Is is worth it?

Is to hope to persevere toward idealism an illusion,
Or worse, a delusion?