a depressed soul

What happens to a mind that thinks
and thinks and thinks
and thinks?

Is it lost in the labyrinth
dark, unwelcome and where dangers abound?
Is it lost in the crowd
busy in their own pithy lives?

The mind is but a experiment
gone haywire and out of control
the frankenstien’s monster
out to kill the mind that makes it work?

The mind is blunt, soft and gel
pain, doubt, fear and anger
abound and borne,
kill, grow and ripen into angels noir.

The mind needs rest, the mind has to stop,
to think and muse, and fear and loathe,
the objects it sees, and feels and hears…
The things it loves, it loves to hate,
the strength of the weak, it hates too much,

The mind innocent, tries to find answers,
answers to actions of meanings none.
Disconnected words and logic illogical
that masquerades as thinking of minds aloof.

Inflicting on itself, pain, fear and loathsome gain.
the mind needs to stop, to think and think,
the mind has to cease, the mind has to stop,
the mind has to die.

*btw, dont worry. im ok*

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