I hear church bells ringing when I know there are none; here

we mark the time by the passing of trains on rusty railroad tracks.

The solitude is tangible in the air, thick as quicksand.

Alone I stand, alone I lie, alone I smile and alone I laugh: finally

I understand the purpose of my words.

Truly, no person wants to read about my suffering—the average life

is an endless search for unreachable happiness, and the multitudes

unquestioningly accept it as such.

My words serve the sole purpose of giving me

release.

 

Art is the release of emotions; through pen, paint,

an instrument or other. Art

is humanity's weapon against order and routine.

Act out, rebel, and show the royals what they've forfeited.

Kings and queens on their thrones so prized are naught

but puppets, slaves to the uncontrollable.

The power lies in the emotions controlled by art, wielded by the artists.

We have the power of seven thousand armies in a single paintbrush,

the force of hundreds of nations in a single pen: one measure of music

has more pull than the mob

of angry men congregating outside.

One sad song is more than enough

to bring humankind, weeping, to its knees.