again
i find myself once again at the void of my own mind. i create repetitive esoteric metaphors in hopes that i can escape. a broken record that continues to spin, though begs through every note to end. soon the worth of my mind will finally run dry, i wont have to feel. the more i express, the less i have to offer. the record will not sing, it will never dance a story for all to hear. the repetition will run dry, and i shall speak no more. the void will have darkened the sky and the record reached its end. it wont hurt. the aftermath of my hopeless rambling will be quiet. haunting and lonesome, the metaphors will fade into obscurity just the same as i will.