Of Maslow

In the midst of the swelling
Anxiety cements itself to a throne
And proclaims itself master of the mind
Here is a chance to level the playing field
Undermining my own weary conscious
If that were even at all possible
Dictating the course which
This wild horse runs

Even mountains with slopes
Like treadmills constantly running
Perseverance triumphs over the fervorous
The migraines of contemplation then seem
Justified by the sole fact that they are fighting
Against the demons that we hide in our cavernous skulls
Much like the castaways, the drifters squatting
In the vacant lobes of our brains too tired
To simply shoo them off with decency
And yet we are so welcoming
To those bullied outsiders

Maybe accepting those theories
So foreign and frightening to us
Is what will truly let us converge
With self-realization, and now
We can be son under the moon
Of Maslow