(structured like a DJ performance, full of rhythm sections, cuts, sample calls, but written as lyrics)

---

(Vinyl hiss… click… bass rumble.)

“Thi-thi-thi… Theodore… Theodore…” (scratched name)

He sits beside the decks, eyes tired, brain heavy,

Thirty-nine years on the clock, hands shaky, heart ready.

But the record won’t talk to him,

the beats won’t whisper back

unless he sparks that fog that makes his trauma turn abstract.

---

He stares at the sample crate like it owes him a reason,

Break loops waiting like guards at the gate of a prison,

Keyboard lit up but no melody flows,

his sober mind only plays back memories he never chose.

Childhood echoes like a scratched record locked on repeat,

arguments, yelling, broken patterns like an off-tempo beat.

And when he tries to chop a break,

his brain chops him instead,

turntablism turns to torture, spinning loud inside his head.

---

“Pain… pain… pa-pa-pa-pain!”

“Trau-trauma-tra-tra-trauma!”

“Sober don’t mean clear, sober don’t mean clear!”

(Reverse scratch squeal, vinyl wail, needle drag.)

---

He needs that cloud to calm the thunder,

needs that spark to make the rumble turn to color.

THC unlocks the crate inside his skull,

turns broken samples into art,

makes his memories dull enough to sculpt into heart.

Without the smoke, the beat feels dead…

With the smoke, the music bleeds instead.

---

Sober mornings feel like cracked speakers rattling,

static fuzzing up the truth, emotional shrapnel battling.

He tries to slice a snare—

but instead his mind slices back,

filling every silent moment with old fears on attack.

So he waits til the evening,

grinds hope in a paper wrap,

inhales courage slow enough to pull his spirit back.

Then his fingers find the rhythm,

then the samples start to talk,

then the needle dances like it learned to moonwalk.

---

“Roll it… roll it… roll it UP!”

“Light it, light it, light it UP!”

“Cut-cut-cut through the pain!”

“Spin-spin-spin through the brain!”

(Flare scratch… chirp scratch… echo drop)

---

Is he addicted to the ghost of his own inspiration?

Or just using medicine for unspoken complications?

He wonders if genius is real or just relief,

if music is a coping skill or a thief.

Is he a DJ or just a memory escape artist?

Is he lazy, or just tired from fighting what the hardest?

He doesn’t know—

he only knows the truth inside the smoke:

art shows up when the trauma finally chokes.

---

He doesn’t chase a high for pleasure,

he chases quiet long enough to measure

the rhythm hidden under years of ache,

the harmony under the heartbreak.

Maybe creativity isn’t stoned…

maybe pain is just too loud.

Maybe weed is his mute button

so the art can speak out proud.

Thirty-nine and still spinning,

still sampling his survival,

every beat a small revival,

every loop a new arrival.

---

“Thi-thi-thi… Theodore… Theodore…”

“Smoke… create… smoke… create…”

“Break the trauma, break the break!”

“Spin your life, don’t let it take!”

(Needle pop, crowd roar sample, fader slam shut.)

---

He exhales slow

and the music finally answers.

Not because he’s weak,

but because the noise was stronger.

Some minds need silence,

some minds need rhythm,

and his needs a little smoke

to find the art still living within him.

The beat begins.

The record spins.

Theodore creates again.