Diesel Motion - Hallucinogenic Mind Maze

Who am I when the room goes silent? Why the mirror got a different face every night? Why the city sound alive after midnight? Why the devil wear a suit when he gives advice? Tell me… Is the maze in my mind… Or am I trapped inside somebody else’s? Streetlight flicker through the nicotine mist, Cold rain drip from the side of the bridge, Young boy sittin’ with a knife and a spliff, Tryna fight off all the voices in his ribs. Grey skies hang like chains on estates, Every stairwell smell like pain and mistakes, Every hallway echo trauma and rage, Every old head got a sorrow they praise. I saw a man lose faith over bills, Another lose his soul over pills, Another told me “money don’t heal,” Then he disappeared for a week in the hills. What’s freedom when your brain in a prison? What’s wisdom if your pain never listens? What’s God when the innocent victims Still scream while the guilty get riches? Questions spiral in the depths of the dark, Like a razor-blade sketch on the flesh of my heart, And I’m pacing through the maze with the venomous thoughts, Tryna figure why the world made death into art. Twisted visions in the backstreets linger, Madman mutter while he tap three fingers, Black cab glide with the cracked-screen sinner, Fast-track crash from a trap dream winter. Tongue twist — “Psychoactive patterns in a palace full of panic, Paranoia painted pictures in the passage of the addicts, Shadow-box battlin’ fragmented fragments, Brain full of static while the fate feels tragic.” I’m askin’ — Why’s everybody numb but still terrified feelin’? Why’s everybody rich but emotionally stealin’? Why’s everybody preachin’ but nobody healin’? Why’s everybody alive but internally leavin’? Hallucinogenic mind maze, trapped in the spiral, Street symphonies play while I walk through survival, Eyes bloodshot red from the pain and denial, Tryna find truth in a world gone tribal. Hallucinogenic mind maze, walls keep shiftin’, Demons in the mirror and the floor keeps driftin’, Who am I really when the mask stops livin’? Who are you when the darkness listens? 3AM in a stolen whip in full send mode, Engine roar sound like turbo chatter in Morse code, Driver said, “Everybody dies slow,” Then he laughed with tears in his eyes though. Swamp-like puddles on cracked concrete, Blue lights flash while my heartbeat skips beats, Young mums cry while the judge gives speeches, Kids learn hate before they learn freedom. I met a dealer named Cain in the flats, Tattoo tears and a flame on his hand, Said “I sold white just to pay for my nan,” Then he broke down halfway through the sentence and laughed. That laugh haunted me for weeks. Like — How many broken souls hide behind bravado? How many kings turn dust for a follow? How many mothers cry tears in the shadows? How many lost minds drown in tomorrow? The city’s alive when the night goes dead, Every alley got ghosts and cries unsaid, Every siren sound like regret instead, Every young G walk with a price on head. Tongue-twister trip — “Mentally meddlin’, medicine settling, Devilish rhetoric wrecking my skeleton, Several sedatives never developing Peace in the residents pressed into pressure and—” Breathe. I looked in the mirror and saw six versions of me. One full of rage. One full of greed. One still innocent. One ready to bleed. One searching for purpose. One begging to leave. So which one’s real? If consciousness drifts when the chemicals mix, And memory shifts every second that ticks, Then what if identity’s nothing but tricks? What if we’re prisoners wearing human skin? The walls moved. The ceiling breathed. The clocks melted backwards. I heard my younger self ask: “When did your heart become colder than the weather?” I couldn’t answer. Only silence. Only sirens. Only rain. Now I walk through the ends like a philosophical phantom, Brain full of galaxies, grief and abandonment, Every conversation feels staged and mechanical, Everybody wearin’ personalities rentable. Social camouflage stitched to the flesh, Fake gold chains on depressed silhouettes, Everybody flex but internally stressed, Everybody scream but nobody connects. I seen geniuses lose to addiction, Seen good girls choose bad conditions, Seen lost souls hide behind religion, Seen politicians profit from division. So tell me — Who designed this maze? Who profits from confusion? Why’s truth feel dangerous? Why’s illusion soothing? If the world’s one giant hallucination, Then maybe pain is the only proof we exist. And if that’s true… Then every scar is language. Every trauma is scripture. Every nightmare is memory trying to survive. So here I walk alone through the rain again. Who are you… When nobody’s watching? Who are you… When the drugs wear off? Who are you… When the music stops? And if the maze never ends… Do you keep walking? Or become part of it?