The Road/ Good Intentions Poem by Rodney Dufault

If the road to Hell is truly paved with good intentions -
Well, I have so many of those that most I never mention.
Let's just say this road is very long by my very own invention.
And even though I'm very strong, I'm now at an intersection.
I don't know where to go, there are many different directions.
Do I take the straight or winding road or make my own impressions?
Sometimes it's hard to really know when you teach yourself your lessons.
Sometimes that just takes too long and you don't get to count your blessings.
I can see why some turn to the Lord in hope for a bit of Holy intervention.
But if He's truly there then most of you will only feel His vengeance.
The same way I want you to feel when I make my first attendance.
Make all the little piggies squeal when I dispatch my first lieutenants
to rid the streets of pills and crack for the sake our descendants.
Get our children's minds on track to make it back to independence.
I'm only human, don't claim to be God, so I'm not asking for repentance.
I only wish for you to love yourselves when you stare at your reflections.
But most of you just make me want to rip out your damn intestines.
Just this week I had two instances of rascism over someone's skin complexion,
and if it happens one more time someone's going to need protection.
I'm going to keep listening to my n****r music because I think it is perfection.
Well, just like anything there are always some exceptions.
Like right there I could have chose a better word selection.
But I wanted you to share with me, my true and honest facial expression,
so you could see how much I wanted to show this chick with whom she's messin'.
The only color I wanted to see is red when I get her out of the skin she's dressed in.
Now do you see why I know I have no shot to ever get into Heaven?
That road is closed to me probably even in all the other dimensions.
My mind's all slaughtery and filled with bodies and dissections.
I can keep going on you see, my bars are many, and filled with tension.
But I know you can't truly feel my words without hearing my inflections.
That's why there's naught to be heard with all this goddamn textin'.
All that shit is for the birds like the rotting corpses of your henchmen.
I'm mostly a lyrical murderer, and only a third a Frenchman.
And all of you'd be suffering if my wife had not become my linchpin.
I've calmed down a lot since but it would have been a cinch then,
back when I threw those guards around like a QB does the pigskin.
The strength that I have mustered is somewhere beyond comprehension.
But still I'm going to Hell on a road paved in my good intentions.