Dead Poets

- I was a infant when Pac got shot in Vegas

- My pops was shocked when he heard he might not make it

- Blood drip to the pavement, 5 minutes after his last picture was taken

- Tears falling down these fans faces - Afania making arrangements, for the funeral payments

- This is as painful as pain gets

- Next thing you know Tupac is cremated

- And there’s nothing left but a bogus investigation

- Pac was my mother’s favorite, she was a teenager hanging out in my grandmother’s basement

- “Me against the world” on her playlist, bumping Brenda’s got a baby

- She listened to it daily

- I was 6 months when “I Get Around” was playing

- And was hypnotize by the punch lines that he was saying

- And a couple years later, can barely tie my shoelaces

- But I saw myself as Pac reincarnated

- Just wanted to finish what he created, writing rhymes with a canyon and a piece of paper

- And now my verses sacred, like the pages of the book of David

- And I won’t stop until I’m on top screaming I made it, trying to make it out of hell

- Satan my next door neighbor, mama told me not to talk to strangers

- Cause these gangsters shoot like Texas rangers to release their anger and mess around and shoot the innocent

- Now these children are our guardian angels, people walk around with heat because they life is in danger

- Now if I get killed as a teenager, everybody will know my name cause of the news anchor

- But that’s not how I want to become famous

- I want to turn rhyming words into stories while performing on stages

- But now I’m struggling to make it to graduation

- Not because of my grades, it’s because I keep running into altercations

- For example, last year I got jumped twice

- 1 was after the Louder than a Bomb finals the same night

- Got jumped by 15 guys, caught me by surprise, which made me realize that I could become a dead poet whenever God decides

- Just like the dead poets that I use to idolizes, I wanted to finish their story…… but who gone be here to finish mine when I die

- Its ashamed that I’m thinking about these things at 17, but I seen too many playgrounds filled with blood stains that remains, that now teens think that it’s just a daily routine

- So I ask you poets to please continue to focus on the stories of these falling soldiers

- For if we don’t, these stories will disappear as if they were never here

- and maybe one day those stories will go down in history

- but for now let’s start a new day, and prevent new names from being on the obituary titled “DEAD POETS”