No. This ain't the special poem. I will let you know when it is.

A darkness hiding away.
In the back of your head.
Emotions and thoughts sway.
Like a voice full of fear and dread.

The darkness makes it's sound.
So calming yet mindless.
So calming from the roof to the ground.
In the darkest thought, lays no kindness.

A rose in bloom.
Like to those in love.
A look of gloom.
Gloom stained on a red covered glove.

The art of poetry like a flower to paint.
The art of time to relax like a possum.
As you know you get help from a saint.
But be in the lie of the dead man's blossom.

The smell of rose and peach fill the air.
With no sign of fear or a fight to be fought.
As those around me cured my despair.
There will be a lesson to be sought.

On a ship to calm my nerves.
But in my head, a different path to cruise.
As panic and mania serves.
Serves the right to every bruise.

My voice is no longer mine.
The rage in a simple thought.
More complex than me saying I'm fine.
As I know what my rage brought.

In rage left to be fixed.
My head spins, full of gloom.
But rather the rage was mixed.
With the echo in a piano's empty room.

Like the voice of a violin at dawn.
Soft and delicate yet so much musical tone.
The violin used like a pawn.
Like a dim light barely shone.

A free voice vanished.
Like glass starting to crack.
A full potential banished.
Like a break in the pawn's track.

A darkness hiding away.
In the back of your head.
Emotions and thoughts sway.
Like a voice full of fear and dread.

The darkness makes it's sound.
So calming yet mindless.
So calming from the roof to the ground.
In the darkest thought, lays no kindness.

A rose in bloom.
Like to those in love.
A look of gloom.
Gloom stained on a red covered glove.

The art of poetry like a flower to paint.
The art of time to relax like a possum.
As you know you get help from a saint.
But be in the lie of the dead man's blossom.

The smell of rose and peach fill the air.
With no sign of fear or a fight to be fought.
As those around me cured my despair.
There will be a lesson to be sought.

On a ship to calm my nerves.
But in my head, a different path to cruise.
As panic and mania serves.
Serves the right to every bruise.

My voice is no longer mine.
The rage in a simple thought.
More complex than me saying I'm fine.
As I know what my rage brought.

In rage left to be fixed.
My head spins, full of gloom.
But rather the rage was mixed.
With the echo in a piano's empty room.

Like the voice of a violin at dawn.
Soft and delicate yet so much musical tone.
The violin used like a pawn.
Like a dim light barely shone.

A free voice vanished.
Like glass starting to crack.
A full potential banished.
Like a break in the pawn's track.