Goodmorning, Glory

Who killed the composer, have you ever murdered, the melody, the hope, the notes, that carry us all there, Maybe you have, maybe I have, maybe I am the melody, and the composition is but all a mystifying love, I will never see in, pure essence but filtered through, my gifts and creativity. The hours pass, and the more, the music plays, the more you are drowning out of my own aestheticism, of the musical build. I need, to know if these sounds, if you can hear, them, or am I just losing my mind. Am I becoming something, you never knew you could place in the realm of success or accessibility, you know the feeling, trust me I know you do, but the familiar breeze of relativity becomes mundane when it is the only thing spoken of, the only thing consistently mentioned. I need help, these days, the only song I seem to sing is that of help, assistance and hope. My mental needs help. The code, is there, the language is becoming apparent and the sounds are distancing. I just want them all to tell me that I am okay, that this is okay, that there will be a period of things being okay. Right? pray.