Rounds of Conscience

He grew up on the lonely streets of New York, like a rose springing from the dusty streets
Concrete would then be his father and we would then understand why he was so hard
So cold, so bold, and so knowledged
Not college educated but with all the makings of a philosopher none the less
His stress found its way into his music and his music found its way on to bootleg CDs
Sold on Halsey St. and over on Flatbush Ave. by a guy name Leon
His songs were of a different melody, his words were of a different path
As though he was talking on behalf of all of us lost in this world, a dark room with no corners
Former greatness buried in the history of our races, apparent in our faces but not in our speech
Incomplete sentences, broken language, sort of like Creole, Ebonics
Chronicly an insult that he understood and put in his words, he was called Conscience
Nonsense he didn’t stand for, a thin, light-skin man with a frizzy little afro that would play on his piano and sing
Ringing in the ears of all would dare to hear was contemplations and reflections of a man uneducated but with a mental PhD
Harmony and lyrics were his conduit, a path for electricity to flow and provide energy
We who heard him were mesmerized as though we were plugged into his passion
His actions springing fountains of thoughts within, though his words would prove to out live him

His songs were interesting, provocative, intellectual, and motivating though he could not get a music deal
Real were his words, telling us about how American high society, white society, was worse than any drug to minorities
Poorer needs were often overlooked, as corporate America continued to build share holder wealth
They, only caring for self, stuff millions of dollars in their pockets and when a million more wasn’t coming
Had to do something, how could they live on a measly couple hundred of thousand dollars
Scholars as the are, cut costs by laying off the low wage jobs
Sobs constantly going unanswered as the system continues to play the blues
Bad news, he lived during a slight economic depression
Confession; he was really laid off and bitter because of the job he ended up losing
Refusing at any time to just let it go, instead choosing to let everyone know what high society had done to the poor black child
So while the depression continued and the poor people were wondering how they would eat
The people on Wall Street suffered as well, only taking five digit bonuses, well short of a million
Children of those would have to go without the recreations of riding in a new edition Maybach
Stop the Madness was the title of that track
I sit wishing I could hit replay and bring him back

He played his guitar to lyrics speaking of dramatic irony
Monotony in our methods of addressing the injustices were so tragic
Pragmatic approaches in his opinion would have lent to a better resolution and more good
Instead of rioting in our own neighborhood, take the problems to up town
Down then would come change, put on a definitely rapid pace, no cash needed fast lanes
Shame that his life was a three round knockout, much too short in the eyes of the audience
He had one song about marijuana puffers, heroine addicts, meth lovers, and crack feigns
Meanings in his verses were clear like water, and bullet like direct
Without fears or regrets he named the dealers by name
Trying to perpetuate change, stop constant cycles of relapse
Perhaps deceived by his fame, forgetting he was just a local phenomenon
Gone from this earth, taken by a bullet from one of the same mentioned dealers
Better term for them would have to be hope-stealers
Determined was one person that had been in the audience for everyone to know him
Honored, decorated, motivated, known through this poem

Avid Minds, Avid Listening, Avid Souls

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