Hindsight by M. Jackson

You know contrary to my many notorieties, in hindsight, the disposition of my own reality is something I've come to live with. One would call it the flip side of the coin, b.u.t then again, they aren't me. Consequently, from the skin I wear proudly. The sacrifices I hold dearly, in hindsight I don't ponder towards doubt. Only implement knowledge of self directed towards change. Never the less, I wonder if they know. Know that as a man I was suppose to vow to do whatever it took to grant those I love care about safety. Food in their belly, and clothes on their backs. In hindsight, the expectancy of credit was never my motivation. Raiser of kids not my own, father to seeds now grown. Less than a memory, only remembered by the title society gave me, GANGSTA. Easily forgotten is the intentions of the strong willed. Before it became the educated mind. As lyfe imitates art, amd art imitates lyfe. Our picture is painted by time's brush. Called to duty we teach, that the game you so call offered your loyalty to. Retrospectively, isn't a game at all. Doesn't love you back. In hindsight I wonder if they know. That it was once said: "There's two dates on your tombstone and everybody is going to read them, b.u.t the only thing that's going to matter is the time in between". Who have you forgotten due to lyfe's circumstances? The time in between to reflect on their worth is now, or are you that selfishly hindsighted.

Voice And Arm by M. Jackson

Most essential blessings, through provided grace by gravity and math. Not limited too blindly on the focus of religion, b.u.t direly aimed at the righteous perspective and empathy of my fellow Brothers (the Arm). My Black Diamonds out there in the concrete, Sisters (the Voice). Be as it may, situations arise as majority annointed have succumbed to the reality, that the American Dream is ultimately the American Nightmare. Myself included, no exception to the rule. Like so many before me. In a time when sexes race to mix, and the attack on urban safety and choice burdens the elderly heart. The man, original and decreed will always remain his rightful position. The Arm. Whereas contrary to popular trend and fad, the strength of comfort, direction and to build and protect. Has been placed in the back of the conscious closet like an old button up. There's no more enchanting than the "Voice" of Blackwomen. Her words speak dreams and admirations, at times when positions don't seem pivotal. The problem is we (the Arm) have failed to listen to the candor of her tone. Failed to seek the melody of her treble. How far away have we strayed when we ignore the "Voice" that spoke console to the lyfe of our young in abscence of our presence. We the "Arm", need to get back to our strength. Rebuild the muscles that once clenched the righteous Black fist. Get back the respect we have leased to the confession and settle of the same sex virus that subconsciously infects the mind of our young. For too long we have asked the "Voice" to hinder to our catfish like survival for steriod of lyfe, giving praise to the dead presidents that don't deserve it. Our Voice has the divine tendency to speak things into existence. Her, the Voice, is a keen reflection what we've taught her. The neglect she has endured. Speaking from vision and perspective, wordlessly, b.u.t in action, from a million or more "Arms". Still strong and capable. Outstretching to the free availibility of presence. Asking the universe to get back to it's understanding. Honor your "Voice", and excercise your "Arm".