I deal with a mental illness of extremes. An illness of war and peace. I wrote this poem about the sinner and saint living in me. I am in a period now where I don’t really know what faith means anymore. I feel it is neither bad nor good. Wrong nor right. I still love this poem even where I am at now. I am proud of what I write and I always will be.
Father, what have we done? We made black feel too black. We made pale feel too red-headed. We made the bright feel psychotic. We made the motivated feel like a disorder. We made them all feel outside of your love.
I want more grace dripping from all of my pores
more women who won’t call their own mothers whores
More men who can’t be bought at any price
men who pick up their kids and put down the dice
I want more programs for the youth after school
More teachers who think that Christ is cool
More mentors to show up at the house
More people telling me what life’s all about
I want more ambition and less politicians
More God willin and less mob villains
I want more Sunday mornings that last the whole week
Less listening to the media and more to God speak
I want more grandma’s house with fam in the woods
More family dinners with boys in the hood
More homeless men showing up to my church
More people hanging on with every verse
I need to be surrounded by those who are driven
More people who realize just what God’s given
Way less anger, terror, judgment and strife
Way more people who are willing to go all night
Give me more classic cars bumping rap from the 80s
More Marshall Mathers and less Slim Shadys
And if my brothers and sisters are headed toward hades
Give me more pastors quick who make the grade please
But I can rap faster than any you punk actors.
What’s the difference?
One’s a lyricist one’s a factor.
One’s got game like Vince on the raptors.
One spits fire the other spits chapters.
Getting green like the masters.
Sippin lean, math blasters.
such an childhood reference all good if you don’t get it.
All good copacetic.
With the best poetics.
Beat em’ up soundly
Wallop then wax em’
I keep em countin all the stacks son.
Keep em sprintin’ like I’m Rev Run.
Keep em grinnin like the cat hun.
Fallin’ down the rabbit hole
Poppin watchmen on patrol.
Need police for our police.
Cuttin’ teeth on the street.
Summer killin cause the heat.
What’s the grim gunna reap?
I said what’s the grim gunna reap?
Per usual making moves like I’m Musual.
Stan, unplanned like parenthood.
Banned, like books very good Huxley
What’s the crux G?
Shut em up proudly.
Call me Oscar.
Unlike the grouch you won’t find me in a trash can.
My words belong over mantels with candles that illuminate my plans.
Illuminate the land.
Some say overstand?
More like we’re under manned.
But In demand.
Supply em with your hands.
Be the feet for his feats.
Be sweet to the sheets.
Say more than your tweets.
I said say more than your tweets.