Self-deception. Self-preservation... Self-deprivation?

Point for purpose? "worth it" worthless?

Tis this bliss I've found,

Sweet chemical contortion?

My decrepit mind's

Crippled thought abortion.

Insufflation, mmmhh

F*****g beautiful sting.

Synthetic means of escape,

A lonely soul's thing.

Does it mean a fragment?

Or, perhaps even matter?

Self-deception's serenity,

Safe, for a tattered mind to shatter.

Quest for mere meaning.

A f*****g point for purpose.

"Value?" Vast pointless emptiness.

Could "worth it," possibly be worthless?

The eclipse of a full circle.

The aesthetic of "completion."

Soothed, simplified complexities,

rather than realities' vague secretions.

The ever-perilous encompassing.

Monotony is a vague cry,

For a true sense of "accomplishment"

Solidified reasoning in the word "Why?"