PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

As I stare at this reflection in my glass of Hennessy…

On the rocks…

I pretend not to see…

This hectic reality,

And epidemic cycle that won’t stop…

Come search behind this cold glare that I carry;

Beneath this hatred I hold…

And see that I’m married to the lies I’ve told,

That floods even my cries on deserted roads…

And try and cope with all your peers dying by the hands of homicide…

And the Man deny the needs of the poverty stricken

In the slums where you reside…

And you grow tired of unanswered prayers,

But in your heart

You’re scared to abandoned God…

So you pray that the solution travels through the barrel of a sawed-off…

Therefore, you stay gone off… the bottle,

Wishing, like magic, you’ll have the disappearance of problems…

And all the weed you smoke by the pound

Can’t solve the stress that pounds on your mind frame…

And time is gamed to catch you slipping if you aint on top of your game…

So, you’re thugg’n and hustling to keep the “Fat Lady” from sang’n…

On the block with your rocks,

And nickel and dime’n just to maintain poverty status…

Got the Feds rushing,

Knocking your door,

And staked out in a Dodge, Stratus,

Watching with the binoculars…

The little niggas all adore your drug wealth,

But you thug for self…

‘Cause the misery is best kept

Beneath the wind within your chest -

Poked out on the curb,

Watching the helicopters -

Like ghetto birds hovering over the projects,

Spotlighting the menaces to America…

And you cry racial, indecent exposure of my people,

Yet you feed the race of diseases through the pores of our people

With your plague-infested needles…

See, you’re Mr. Nigga -

So drunk with your own ignorance you stay gone…

Lost in a time zone that enslave minds now,

And you ask where has the time gone…

Singing “Heavy Chevy Shawty” in your stolen Impala…

You’re living high to die young,

But to no fault of your own -

You were raised by drug dealers and alcoholics…

Dreams of ‘24s with them chrome thangs spinning

Got you constantly sinning…

So you make the correct connects.,

And now you’re moving major weight like Oprah Winfrey…

Got young adolescents in their prime

Distributing your work like a 9 to 5 for chump change,

And the chance to brag to peers how he’s in the dope game…

He had the big name,

But little fame….

The “enough to splurge money”,

To be set up by his main honi…

Yellow tape,

Outlined in chalk,

Executed in the dope game…

It aint funny,

Homie died at the age of thirteen…

And it seems this shit will never change

As long as the niggas in the streets dead broke…

They got homies given the death sentence -

Putting in work, 10 years on death row…

Denied the electric chair,

Now up for trial, awaiting the ghetto…

The youth’s future is getting dimmer,

And I can’t condemn them -

“The blind can’t lead the blind”

I’m revelating through a glass of liquor…

But let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone…

Therefore, only God can judge me…

My heart is the backbone of a corpse discovered in a broken home...

Tell me, what is it all worth?

Heaven or hell?

Which one am I destined?

Nightmares of me being rushed to the pearly gates over intoxicated,

Before the Lord,

Spitting up my intestines…

But may God bless the dead,

So I pour out a lil’ liquor for my dreams -

The victim of eternal poverty issued by the hands of society…

So I just say the hell with this world…

Just let me find peace in this glass of Hennessy





Tha Prodigal One...