A budding writer's collection

Madness

They say I've lost my mind,
Well, who ever craves a fog-painted windshield?
All I do is scrub at it,
Day and night, get it spick and span,
And then witness the horror.

What's "losing your mind"?
Is mind the glasshouse where one sleeps blindfolded?
If that is what it is, then, yes,
I am indeed lost, no hopes of returning.

How can one stroll through this savage garden,
See ignorant beauty that drowns in self-indulgence,
Isolated pockets amid ruin,
And never seek to build a boundless beauty,
A beauty that thrives everywhere?

For all the grand proclamations of humanity,
Has one ever ceased to wonder,
Maybe humanity is the embodiment of aesthetic selfish pleasure,
A performance of good deeds to silence the heart,
Striving towards a vision that soothes the eye?