Simpler beings of this world detached with dispassion,
Those gifted with a deeper conscience cursed with obsession,
Losing their mind in their craft in a meaningless fashion,
Thoughts of own torment these great souls, fabulous fanatics of their passion.
One thought repeated, actions slave to the cycle never ending,
Most artists in isolation need some kind of mending,
The kind too contemplating each help they are lending,
Those lost in thoughts lament their lack of actions, with their vision, time too bending,
Preoccupations in the mind more often than not pessimistic,
Aimless eccentrics engulfed endlessly, call themselves artistic,
Love, hate, anger all turns into food for the obsessive critic,
The mind which knows not how to stop the cycle, the melancholic mystic.
The expression not meant for many, as esoteric as they come these days,
Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, the violinist in love with his craft plays,
Ignoring the cuts on his heart, turning them into verses to his audience he says,
The writer glued to his typewriter, ages since he saw sunrays...
The skilled sculptor of marble knows not beyond the chisel,
The who has dedicated his soul and mind, cares not for clouds and drizzle,
The farmer in the sun cares not if under the sun his skin is to sizzle,
The head which keeps barking needs a silent muzzle.
Tales of times yonder petrify those in today's moments,
Suffering in imagination, taking themselves so seriously, these peasants,
Lost in the worries of old and those non existent, ignoring the time's presents.
Losing one's mind in the depths one descends.
The musician drowned in music, the poet drowned in verses,
The dancer drowned in the flow, The thinker drowned in curses,
The artist drowned in the canvas, through colours how one traverses.
An orchestra of obsession, thoughts governing all senses playing a tune relentlessly,
Everything arises from a thought that refuses to leave one's head, playing back endlessly...