Hi. In contract, my name is Rohan Dunbar. I also go by the names Apollo and Dr. B.L.A.K. I hope these psalms find you well.
So, where do I start? I expect these lines to tell me as I stare… Rolling up this blunt, I’m getting high as the page comes near. Still nothing. Only anger, frustration, sadness, concentration, perhaps too much because you know nothing good comes out of anything that you force in. I guess this is why I’m single without even a letter or a noun to be my equal. Thoughts of paraphrasing my words into your mind, perhaps open your eyes so you can see where we’re equal. Blurred lines until next time… The Sequel.
Dear blank space and blue sky lines. As I write on you, let me know if at any time I’m violating you. Let me know if the smell of the ink disturbs you. Let me know if black is fine or if you’d rather blue, pink, or purple. Let me know if I’m too rough and if my pressing down hurts you. They say I’m too pressed for freedom and it’s out my virtue but still, nobody sees who I am but you. You, you, you. Here’s the truth. Nobody understands me but you. Even though you don’t speak back, at least you hold me down with these words I write down so I can read back… If ever need be to backtrack…
I know where to go the next time I feel like I’ve lost my mind, just turn these pages and come back to these lines. So, until next time… I just hope that there’s a next time. Cops are still killing niggas like, “Freedom? Oh… Yeah, maybe next time.” I just wish black lives mattered to black lives who carry black 9’s with hollows that dig in back spines, it took caskets to open third eye’s, no signs mattered, till little kids started seeing black lives scattered. But hey, I’m a black guy so when ever did my mind matter?
Until next time Casper.
I know what I am expected to be. You all tell me who you expect me to be and who I’m expected to see. But what happened to me? I’m tired of the gimmicks. I’m tired of the lies & the switches. I’m feeling like Harriet Tubman with one bullet, preaching freedom but nobody hears it, so who gets it? Maybe it should be me, since I’ve allowed this… To be. Paint this picture, it’s the picture of the sort of scene where I ain’t free. To be just me in this society seems to be costly. Feels like I’m just a part of a script that came out of a dream. Yeah, I allowed it. Shame on me for two times not eyeing it. This is how I became violent. Death being soothed to its sleep by a violin. Now I’m stuck in a plot twist where I’m at my own funeral and Jesus is the Pianist. Muhammad, warning you all, “there shall be nothing but war after this”. My mother crying aloud “I Can’t stand this!” “Somebody take it!”
Good ol dad with that same good ol excuse “I couldn’t make it.” Again… Yeah, again. I just figured I’d tell you all of this before you no longer see me and then wonder why I’m vacant. Dear John, this life is a mothafuka and it got to the point where I could no longer take it… And if I no longer make it… Maybe you can find a replacement…