Late in the night burdened by more than stress.
I lay awake ridiculed not by my own life but by the lives of others.
Their pain is my suffering soul.
My thoughts supress their hurt and expose the blindness within the warmth of their tears.
They haven't found the outlet of bravery that I have.
But my stance in shining armor is nothing but tinfoil against the hate they feel.
Where can I possibly turn to offer that one objective fact that can be seen.
A statistic that is as real as a man drowning before you in the ice.
Men drowning. There is no time for ignorance or debate.
I can't find it. My objectivity is lost amongst the remenets of ice in a melted sun.
Could I turn to what can't be understood? Changing comprehension into the fine details of synapes snapping together at the speed of light.
All this is stress that must be converted into subjectivity. A beauty we will all understand.
So I wake up from a dreamless dream that was long stopped by time.
I remove the covers which reveal a sweat caused by a faulty heating system in a pot head apartment in which is my abode.
In my head I imagine the sound of the piano.
An outlet to express this social turmoil. This long time boiling heat.
All that confusion previous to this line becomes understandable.
Subjectivity arises in the beauty of music.
That sound soothes the soul.
But it comes from a disorientated hell to relieve what I can not cease for my people.
Those tears become expressed in music.
Synapses are seen in sound.
Objectivity is skewed by bass and melody.
The world will never understand where this music comes from.
I know it is not heaven.
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