Is money the fix? Does it save you from your sins? Can you buy yourself some home spun absolution? No. When I hear people toss around those words, shrug their shoulders at the ills we face; it makes me quake. He sits in the studio with pen and pad weaving tales of destruction and indifference. There is a suit standing over his shoulder whispering in his ear.

Yes. That’s it. Peddle that to the kids. They love that shit.

Tales of urban blight fill his head. Too much television before he went to bed? Is that what he saw when he peered out of his window as a small child? Possibly. If it is, then he still feels the pain to this day. He builds his verse with the blessings of those who don’t care about us and then unleashes; pandering that pain to the next generation. So powerful. So real. If you close your eyes and think hard enough, you can smell the crack burn. You can feel the rush; the heart palpitations. You can count the money that purchased that leap from a cold harsh reality into a deeper pit of hell.

But you can’t knock that.

It’s your responsibility. You are the parent. He is not a role model. Funny. You target weak minds for consumption of that mental crack, the most impressionable of the lot; those who take the parents discretionary income to fill your coffers. It’s their heads you need to sneak into. Their attention you must garner. You need enough cake to barter your way out of the responsibility you are afraid to claim for the perpetuation of the cycle. Those who you influence are those that you ignore. I’m not a role model. Not true. You are. You couldn’t grab their minds if you weren’t. Then you run and hide from what you had a hand in creating for the right price.

But you can’t knock that.

I am a parent; a parent who plays musical buttons with the radio in the car when the mini-me rides shot gun. I am a parent who looks to any and all avenues to introduce my child to what is so important to me; what made me pick up my own pen and pad in the first place. But it’s hard. The canvas that once held a myriad of thoughts, dreams, tumult and turmoil is many times depthless. I will not shrug my shoulders. I will not. It used to take a village. The spirit of nurture would rise in us all. We were the caretakers regardless of who pushed that bundle out. No longer. Many allow these minds like sponges to absorb it all. No shield from the ugliness; no disdain for those who attempt to reason with them on such a low level. We explain. They try to understand. But the media is a bitch. Its omnipresence permeates us all. It’s just harder for them to fight.

But you can’t knock that.

Fuck that. With all due respect to those who will not agree, fuck that. We are all responsible. We all have had our fingers sullied by our part in continuing the cycle. I will not shrug my shoulders but I will not judge those who do either. It takes a lot to see past the surface. The whips. The chips. The honey dips. All of the accoutrements of a life that is ruled by the surface; the pretentious; the transparent.

Nice car; but at what price? Big crib; but at what price? Deep pockets; but at what price?

Consider the hustle… knocked.

You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.