Psylocibin Suicide

Walking through the forest, what do I find? A specimen so strange, it messes with my mind. Not in any field guide, no pages can define, This psilocybin suicide, a truth I must unbind. It's like a tiny architect, dismantling all I knew, Each spore a little whisper, saying, "Start completely new." My ego, a grand mansion, with rooms of pride and fear, Now just a pile of rubble, and the forest drawing near. The trees become my teachers, the moss a velvet floor, I'm shedding skin and stories, knocking on a different door. This mushroom's not just growing, it's a mirror to my soul, Showing me the pieces, making me feel truly whole. So I let the old self crumble, a silent, soft decay, And find a new foundation, born from yesterday's dismay. The forest breathes around me, a wisdom deep and slow, And in this dissolution, I begin to truly grow.