Mind of Tha Musician

By: Timothy A Peoples Jr.

Why do I play when it hurts me so badly to perform?
I imagine this dark room filled with an audience of distinguished gentlemen,
In collard shirts and middle aged wives fantasizing about the color,
Of which I represent while moving my fingers across keys,
Designing a brilliant melody, her mind sets on internal secretion,
Rather than my endowments, and my fluent utterance
In tune I have established, Even So,
I play with the striking desire of wanting to eliminate,
My Audience…

For which the language that I’m speaking is very instrumental,
To the point that it’s foreign to my listeners,
And those who try to understand the language,
Only mock me while being in the audience as a critic,
Guessing that my language would be heard if only,
Spoken by someone more “Culturally Advanced”,
As if I can’t speak it, but is in need of an
Interpreter…
So I play and even when the tune should be sweet,
It’s over powered by anguish of their misconception,
And this Thought of not understanding
Makes me Inferior to them where I am disdained
Still Speaking…

And understanding my thoughts,
And why I hate those who’ve oppressed me,
And encouraged this message for which I’m portraying,
Through a series of episodes of struggle,
But I can never stop these Black n White levers going up n down,
Imagining this world as a tune controlled by,
The little boy who supposedly didn’t understand his existence,
Performing for “The Distinguished Gentlemen”, and their,
“Middle Aged Wives”, asking myself,
“CAN MY PEOPLE HEAR ME”, I’m
Speaking to them subliminally through a,
Language…
That those who are listening but not hearing,
This language that wasn’t designed for them to understand,
That is Foreign to them even STILL,
I am frustrated at “Them” who’ve taught us,
Not to listen to each other when we are communicating,
Instrumentally!
Simply because they fear the message of Transformation,
So they try to understand what I’ve spoke when it’s clear,
That they will never understand the intellect of a musician,
Or the language designed for my people,
Yet still I play after I bow in the mist of wanting,
To be heard by those who are trained not to listen,
MY PEOPLE…

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