Well, in the weight of it, All these thoughts that bury a spark Creativity suffocates in the absence of light Where these clawing arms reach from the floorboards To pull me under tenebrous silhouettes - Ripping my skin to the **** of my soul Poking their rods to extinguish my all, I am famished from the hunger for a muse in the music I am thirsty for a tide of color - Oppressed by the terrorist of harmony, A prisoner of war in my melancholy.