Canvass

Coldness is corruptable
Likewise, fullness leads to insanity

The soul our depot of emotions
A source of hate, love and creativity
Born out of pride, or pities cushion
Writes my hand out of dull naivety
Bequides my pen over these pages
Scarred with hair and ink
Burns its pride or joys apon blank stares
To reflect state of mind washed on the mental brink

Minds that are never clear of its disputes
Flings my remorse apon a hill of it's own
Churns regularity, the inspirational cavity
To reveal the discarded, and replay it
Into dreams of troubles grown
But sickness brews from all its whinings
Realisation strikes but fails, a broken axe to a log
Vows a change in personal nature
Deceiving my head
To live for others, but ourselves be dead