I want to talk about music
From a sheet or mic
I feel like the crumbled remains of common sense
have drifted, lifted downwards

Art is born through today’s meaningless words rather than historic quotes
Though boats save us from guzzling polluted liquid
I’m sick with the fact there is no remedy for polluted ears

Though we humans have minds capable of building skyscrapers and searching for stars, par is unreachable on all eighteen holes of our imagination

Musically we are deaf to anything except the so-called best which exits speakers and flows through the weaker listeners

This generation contains hearing
Hearing that has been overshadowing listening
What is a word if it can’t be used effectively?
It’ll lie next to me telling personal stories of empathy

I want people to hear the lyrics of Talib Kweli
Let them hear what a true beautiful struggle is
What the less fortunate have to do daily just to get by
Why if lyrics sold then truth be told he would be just as rich and famous as Jay-Z

I want people to hear the lyrics of Outkast

Tyler Hardel


How they use the art of storytelling to describe the path of Sasha Thumper aka Hip Hop
How as a kid she feared she wouldn’t live long
And how her body was found in the back of a school with a needle in her arm and baby two months due

I want people to hear the lyrics of Jimi Hendrix
Let them hear colors become metaphors for moods
Let them hear hidden dedications to Lucille
Let them hear a guitar that cries freedom to Neptune

Upon horizons I lay back puzzled as I drift in rhythm with riddles
I can’t solve them, an answer is needed
The peaking of the sun eventually drowns the thoughts

I bought an imagination at age nine for the cost of a dime
Since that time I’ve wondered why
I find no others around

I’m grounded, surrounded
Feeling helpless
As if I need to find the
Directions on MapQuest

Can I please have just one breath?
One moment so I can catch it
The radios are bleeding smog
And I am dying

I want to talk about how music has helped shape cultures and how it is now sinking in quicksand under vultures
No hand but mine to pull it out
I’m not strong enough

Poor music, I see her often
She speaks stories of being set to a type of sentence of encavement behind bars, instead of the kind in novels

She’s been empaled by the empire so many times, she can’t see straight
Her eyes are too busy swimming in indigo emotion

Her notion sends her spirit to the ocean before she realizes
Freedom is not an option; her immolation resembles suicide

Few keep her alive, I know deep down she wants to end it
But she also knows that you can’t kill something infinite
Suffering forever, and ever, for infinity

I miss her lulling Levantine like lullabies on my bedside
I reminisce on the stories of infantas in old Spain as I stare at the stains from beatings and pain
Running on my floor is the flux of ichor spewed from her veins

I tried to help my childhood friend but she’s now mortal
Entozoons left few remains
My job is to encrimson and exhume
They won’t be able to tell the colors apart

I want people to hear my voice
Listen to my words
Hear my tone
Listen to the meaning, save her