The mind is a canvas, chaotic and wild,

Lines overlapping, untamed, uncompiled.

Thoughts like ink spill in tangled embrace,

A scribble of madness one cannot erase.

Whispers of reason get lost in the fray,

Swirling and looping, then drifting away.

One moment they're vivid, the next they dissolve,

An endless enigma none can resolve.

Colors collide in a careless spree,

Shades of emotion that won’t let us be.

Joy, fear, and sorrow in reckless display,

Blurring the edges of night and of day.

Yet in the disorder, a pattern unfolds,

A language of chaos that nobody told.

For even in scribbles, some beauty remains,

A story of passion, of love, and of pain.

So let the ink wander, let thoughts misbehave,

Not all art is perfect, yet all thoughts are brave.

Messy yet magic, a world set apart—

The mind’s a scribble, but still, it’s an art.