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On the Scales

Dark experimental hip-hop / abstract rap beat. Minimal, tense, emotionally distant sound. [Verse 1] Night shift, white light, clinically bright, clipboard clipped tight in the surgical quiet. He stares at the ceiling like it’s open sky, plastic cup trembling, no words reply. “Non-verbal male,” I label the file, underline twice in a measured style. Ink doesn’t blink, it doesn’t beg, it simply assigns what the columns weigh. You call it care, I call it cost, numbers embossed where language is lost. If pain has mass and mercy has width, shouldn’t we sift what the balance can lift? I’m calm, composed, not prone to extremes, I don’t raise my voice, I raise the means. If life is a scale and someone must see, what rests on the plates eventually— [Hook] On the scales, no rage, no screams, just quiet hands and calibrated schemes. If worth has weight and breath has size, who am I not to quantify? On the scales, no hate involved, only a problem neatly solved. If justice tilts and I align— tell me where I cross the line. [Verse 2] You say he feels though he cannot speak, that silence itself is a human technique. But if value is volume and sound is proof, what do we do with a permanent mute? Don’t look at me strange, I’m sane, I’m strict, I don’t inflict—I correct, I restrict. I wrote to the men in the tailored suits, explained the arithmetic absolute. Gardens don’t grow without trimming the dead, progress is paved where sentiment bled. If function defines what living should mean, what function exists in the unseen? I don’t despise, I revise the design, refine the line between yours and mine. If breath is a right but thought never blooms, does mercy reside in fluorescent rooms? [Bridge] I don’t shake. I don’t shout. I calculate the in and out. No fury, no fire, no fevered pulse— just measured results. [Verse 3] The night was still as a theorem proved, no chaos moved, just protocol grooves. I asked through the door, “Can he speak?” They said, “No.” The word felt uniquely removed. Not random, not rash, not blind to the fact— I separate weight from emotional act. If value is balance and balance is law, what rests on the scale without flaw? You see a monster, blood on his sleeve, I see a gardener forced to relieve. Not rage but reason guiding the hand, steady and ready to re-understand. But somewhere between the question and deed, a fracture concealed inside the creed— if life is reduced to a weight I can see, who placed the same measurement onto me? The room was bright, but something went dark, not in the beds— but under my heart. [Hook] On the scales, I stood alone, thinking I guarded the edge of the known. If I was sane in a world untrue, why did the balance tilt toward you? On the scales, I played my part, separating body from beating heart. If justice weighs what’s meant to be— why does it weigh so heavily on me? [Outro] You thought I was watching a madman there. I was. Just not the one you’d declare.