(Spoken Word)
[Let's Finish The Story]
Let's finish the story.
Momma.
Aunties.
Cousins.
Friends.
Many men.
Some were lighthouses.
Some were storms...
pretending to be lighthouses.
Some gave wisdom.
Some gave wounds
wearing wisdom's clothes.
They said—
"Get even."
"Live a little."
"Do you."
Funny.
How destruction always arrives
with a nickname.
How poison always arrives
wearing perfume.
How bad advice
always sounds like freedom
right before the bill comes due.
One bad choice
became a compass.
And every road...
Pointed backward.
Back to the streets again.
Back to the den of no-goods.
Back to the crowd
that celebrates wreckage
like it's a holiday.
Where applause sounds like love.
And accountability
sounds like hate.
Here's the riddle:
What cage has no bars?
Approval.
What leash has no chain?
Fear.
What thief wears your face?
Bad judgment.
Maybe he can impress them.
Maybe he'll finally be HIM.
King of a paper kingdom.
A billionaire of borrowed attention.
A landlord of rented crowns.
Built a mansion from applause.
Then discovered...
Applause can't pay the mortgage
on an empty soul.
Tell me—
If the crowd loves you today
and leaves tomorrow,
were they fans?
Or just witnesses?
Plot twist.
The enemy wasn't Momma.
Wasn't auntie.
Wasn't the streets.
Wasn't the no-good men.
The enemy...
was an old wound
wearing a wise man's suit.
Pain is a ventriloquist.
It throws its voice
across generations.
Makes fear sound like guidance.
Makes trauma sound like instinct.
Makes old scars sound like truth.
The hood wasn't the prison.
The prison learned your address
from your thoughts.
The streets were just an echo.
The real project housing
was unfinished construction
inside the heart.
And every bad decision
was a wounded compass
begging for a map.
Now let me tell my part.
I wasn't the enemy.
But I wasn't the victim.
I was the bridge
you burned
while standing on it.
The hand
you let go of.
The truth
you laughed at.
The one abandoned.
The one lied to.
The one stolen from.
The one hustled.
The one embarrassed
for the entertainment
of people who would've sold tickets
to your downfall.
I kept a dead record
for every act of disrespect.
Every scratch
a memory.
Every groove
a bruise.
Every spin
another lesson.
But graveyards aren't libraries.
So I stopped revisiting the dead.
I learned
revenge charges interest.
Bitterness collects rent.
And peace costs less.
Some things can't be taken back.
Not because of hate.
Because of consequence.
A shattered mirror
can still tell the truth—
but it'll never be
the same mirror.
And no—
a million years from now
doesn't change that.
Time doesn't reverse rivers.
It only reveals
where they were flowing.
So here's what matters.
Teach the children.
Teach your daughters
that attention isn't affection.
Teach your sons
that disappearing isn't manhood.
Teach them every habit
casts a vote.
Every choice
plants a seed.
Every friend
is a future neighborhood.
Teach them that some people
sell anchors
and call them wings.
Some people
sell cages
and call them freedom.
Read the labels twice.
Then read yourself once.
Because the strongest people
in the room
aren't the ones
controlling everybody else.
They're the ones
strong enough
to master themselves.
So if you remember anything,
remember this:
Bad advice
opened the door.
Bad decisions
walked through it.
Pain decorated the room.
Ego paid the rent.
The crowd threw the party.
But wisdom...
Wisdom found the exit.
And that's the moment
The compass stopped spinning.
And the children
finally got a map.