Obsidian Echoes

Here I stand once more, entangled in the labyrinth of my mind, A disarray of thoughts, a melancholy find. In the shadows, I dwell, worn and weary, A dark room, a colder heart, the echoes eerie.

Thoughts entwined like vines in my head, A mess, depression, weariness spread. Heartbeat races, a bewildering pace, Lying on the bed, lost in this mental space.

Vocal whispers in the silence of my mind, Dialogues confined in boxes, secrets I find. The heart welcomes, yet the mind is blank, Filled with notes, car notes, a visual rank.

Bloody scenes, screams in the whispers, Vague, silent thoughts, like haunting whispers. A melody of vagueness, a love song in the dark, A wife, a lady, a man, a husband's embark.

Broken, refused, neglected echoes, Healed, accepted, chosen shadows. Breathe, release, meditate, a suffocating air, Circulation struggles, respiration impaired.

Destiny embraced, a life lived or scripted, Creepy thoughts linger, childhood revisited. Broken leads, rescuing fractured art, Visuals, a painting of a shattered heart.

Knowledge without understanding, a crashing wall, Exploring conscious minds, pain's enthrall. Eradicating overthinking, a fear profound, Searching my conscious soul, wounds abound.

Hunger, truth, fearlessness sought, Chains of lust, greed, selfishness caught. Wounds deep, bones broken in my quest, A conscious search, wounds that jest.

Shattered conscious awakening in the deep, Eyes closed, a chosen paranoia to keep. No life vest, no guard, just a lonely paddle, No pillow, empty room, no shadow to straddle.

Lingering thoughts, a vague scenery, Body shivers, staring at my empty book, a gallery. Artistic yet vague, where to start, In this mind of deceit, pain, and distortion, my heart.

Broken crayons still evoke colors of the night, A metaphor we agree, a poetic flight. The art lies in the chosen hue, Eagles of intuition, man-made and true.

Pain felt, some succumb, some endure, Lifetime lived not from a perfect crayon, be sure. But in the colors we choose to paint, The picture we create, our unique saint.

That's what makes an artist, A soul who, with pain and color, coexists