The Mission (C) 11-9-09 Poem by Zahir Kijani

White machines blast amazingly like storm troopers
Mouths hangin on the floor like they was left in a stupor
Fire freezes away death that decrees
A fervent reason for us to dropp 90 degrees
Blockade the Emperor’s palace scratchin his soundtrack
No longer carin bout his groove he just wanted his sound back
Silence fills the room with intangible screams
Tear away the moon no longer givin the children their dreams
Breeze past the fast track when they crack lack
Fires birds known as phoenix when they made the trash ash
Feelin niggaz is only fifty percent either talk or walk
I come one hundred and eighty so Imma plot this hot
Call me a walkie talkie cause when I get my best hand through
I might jab a walkie like America’s best dance crew
Shackled like Prometheus starin in the eye of the vulture
Men don’t get there’s no I in race neither is there I in culture
Tried to teach them that which is the metaphorical fire
I see that men have no desire to learn but a hurtin desire
Released from my torment when I obtained the catalyst of my demise
One day the very thing that set me free will permanently sever my eyes
Run off of self motivation and gamma rays and UV energy
Chemically imbalanced and I guess knowing is my enemy
My only mission in life is to end it or live it with ease
Make it through the burning hail and the bloody red seas
Almighty forgive me for my sins and lend your force for this battle
I’m against Satan his demons and the world that they rattle
The Phoenix shall return and offer me a ride on his right wing
But I’ll take the left even though the flames might sting
My instinct is what built my mind’s intuition
This is the mission of whether or not I can bring his plans to fruition
Sling bullets that leave engages senses like western philosophy
This is my mission and I will win who’s brave enough to imagine stoppin me