Evanesce

My brain  
used to brim with  
beautiful melodies;  
symphonies,  
like Socrates.  
But now it's barren,  
a dead thing,  
a weight so overbearing  
a single thought embeds-
and burrows tirelessly.  
The depths -lows- I've reached  
have violated  
my nights and are  
illustrated in the purple  
crescents beneath my puffy,  
bloodshot brown eyes,  
swollen without sleep.  
My mind used to master  
music and buzz with  
poetry and my hands  
used to transform paper  
into art. Now they tremble  
between grey and black and blank,  
so unsteady,  
I've lost my sight.  
I've become so tired  
and macabre within  
my little box I have created  
because I had to create it...  
I used to exist
and create so I'd stop  
destroying my arms and  
legs with cuts and  
thick slits;
I used to write, god,  
so vigorously to ease my brain.  
I used to brim with beautiful
symphonies, like Socrates.  
But now I believe
that
I can't believe anymore.