Will it take for me to become a martyr words for you understand my craft?

To die before my time; leaving behind a casket lined with the pages of my life

The explanation of my sacrifice

Why I’m not coming home

Why I spoke in silent script

Why stages became the battlefield of my soul’s demise

 

My abilities are not determined by scores

But to be as raw as blistered lips on a nudist

To move an audience to flood like tears

Brining hands calloused from sins to  Onomatopoeia prayers

Prayers in my words; words fossilized relics of backbone, teeth

Of the breathing deceased, my body

Being reincarnated from a decaying casket to a flower bed

 

Dear Momma,

There have been days when I did not want to wake up

Did not feel worthy to respirate

Wanted to rip my lungs apart to finally
Rest In Peace

Let this Jesus piece be the slave hand noose to lynch my breath away

But this is not a suicide note

Found strength in the word to inspire these words

“Maktub” forged from Illmatic Alchemy to form gold

By God’s Son It Was Written

Giving out my soul each time I step to oppressed mics

Having the mind of Huey P trapped inside a Sara Baartman body

Let them stare at this body, let them mock it

But one person from the audience will find the beauty of my nudity

Dear momma,

My ability is not based off of scores, awards

But to be a prayer’s answer

I sacrifice my body so someone here will know that they are not alone

I sacrifice my soul each time I’m in front of oppressed mics, so they will not have too