Before the poetry, my dark days, enlightenment,
and the fall of grace…I was a child with a dream,
friends, and a smile. Sunday morning services
were like prison to me- the minister caught me
kissing his daughter; what can I say, “She fell in
love with a snake!” from my grave you will hear
my soul be critical…

Before the microphone, I had nothing to say; I
still don't…I was shy, kept to myself, nothing has
changed but the age, it seems like yesterday
everything began again, here I go again, but now
with a microphone, everybody knows how SoulCritic

Friends until the end, never again have I reminisced
of back when like today; so many haters, fake smiles,
liars with flyers promoting their fables, I stay busy
with money on my mind, creativity, and living between
the sunlight and the moonlight…in the ray of light

Before the legend was born, the word was written…
bullets were fired, live by the wire, in the steal of the
night sold my soul for complete control, listening to Bob
Marley with a stogie and 40 ounces of poison…

Before my freedom of speech, I watched what I said-
today I speak with no hairs on my tongue-
metaphorically meaning, I don't give a damn!- keep
your votes, but criticize me…my self-expression is your
fascination, too some an obsession. Girls have gone
wild over my spoken words…

Before the women of the night, I had love to spare, but
no one gave a chance and dared to love me back, now
my heart is shallow, with one thing on my mind…when
morning comes, I will not be the same person you slept
with that night...

Before Red Hot Chili Peppers there was Christian music
tapes heard throughout the rooms of our homes…today
I spend hours in my room, listening to Satanic music
(as known by the fanatics) and write and think,
sometimes act evil and strange…

Before the world knew I was a poet, I had rage and
discontent in my spirit…now my spirit lingers free of guilt
and a conscious minimal to care. I continue to write
poetry every day, before you critique me, be sure you
understand me…make sure you're a dreamer like me.

Today distant are those dreams, nocturnal thoughts,
women with changing faces, and voices outside my
window…Every poet is insane! Other’s schizophrenic,
bipolar poets come in three…like death, if it’s not cheated.
I cheated death once? maybe twice.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I cheated death once!

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