prisoner ksc2 3
12-18-2004, 03:35 PM
I wrote this on the seventh anniversary of Tupac's death. Just discovered this section of Boxden, and thought I'd dust it off and see what people thought.
Props if you like it, nothing if you don't.
--
Ode to a fallen poet (The Seven Year Theory)
When people think of poetry, they conjure names
from their mind like Frost, and d*ckinson and Hughes.
But I say we lost one or our generation's greatest poets
seven years ago in Las Vegas.
We were robbed of a true voice, a misunderstood,
contradictive, conflicted poet.
You may not agree, but I saw him for the man he was, not the man
he tried to make us think he was.
He claimed that All Eyez were on him. That it was him
against the world. However, I heard the voice that
resonated below the boasts and braggadocio.
Anyone who saw him converse with Janet in the postal truck
on the way to Oakland knows what I speak of.
He lamented that he was like a rose growing through concrete. Something
beautiful and fragile that grew out of something so hard and cold and unfeeling.
Full of contradictions, blaming his mother for his
brother's crack addiction one moment, and lovingly
dedicating a song to her strength and inner power the next.
Seven years have passed, as he did seven years past, taken
from us in the most violent of ways. There will never be
another like him.
Some may say that is a good thing, but those are the ones who
never took the time to look past the tough facade and look closer
to see the heart of a man
Props if you like it, nothing if you don't.
--
Ode to a fallen poet (The Seven Year Theory)
When people think of poetry, they conjure names
from their mind like Frost, and d*ckinson and Hughes.
But I say we lost one or our generation's greatest poets
seven years ago in Las Vegas.
We were robbed of a true voice, a misunderstood,
contradictive, conflicted poet.
You may not agree, but I saw him for the man he was, not the man
he tried to make us think he was.
He claimed that All Eyez were on him. That it was him
against the world. However, I heard the voice that
resonated below the boasts and braggadocio.
Anyone who saw him converse with Janet in the postal truck
on the way to Oakland knows what I speak of.
He lamented that he was like a rose growing through concrete. Something
beautiful and fragile that grew out of something so hard and cold and unfeeling.
Full of contradictions, blaming his mother for his
brother's crack addiction one moment, and lovingly
dedicating a song to her strength and inner power the next.
Seven years have passed, as he did seven years past, taken
from us in the most violent of ways. There will never be
another like him.
Some may say that is a good thing, but those are the ones who
never took the time to look past the tough facade and look closer
to see the heart of a man