My barque is worse than my bight.

I surrender to a plethora of psychedelic lights,
Blinded by a host of reasons insane.
Reclining into a world of sheer delight,
Harbouring fantasmic dreams of a really long mane.

The virus spreads all over my pretentious soul,
Like red acrylic on the surface of a lake.
I'm tired of all the want-to-be's on a screwy roll,
With rudiments unanswered and dynamics at stake.

I have lots to learn, I agree my friend,
Yet I humbly wait before I start to preach.
I'm aeons away from rounding the bend,
There is a lot to achieve before I start to teach.

I hammer away on skins with feigned fucking hope,
Hoping to make it big one day.
I'd really dig a confidante as Alexander Pope,
Intermittent fantasies of romping in the hay.