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Prophet

Its often seen as pretentious,
To personally dub yourself some title of power.
Prophet.
The term conjures up images of Old Testament spirituality,
Elijah and Elisha,
Minor and major,
Each accepting the crucial labor,
That is being the mouthpiece of Adonai,
So here am I,
Many thousands of year later,
Dumbfounded like a dumbwaiter,
Wondering why God has tapped my shoulder,
To constantly proffer such dismal words,
Some days I’m sick of soaking parades,
With atmospheric waves of verbal graves,
Declaring death to that which I see.
Yea.
I’m discontented with most things invented,
As mainstays for our modern social culture.
Psychology.
The various basal forms of philogyny,
How “niggas get money” constantly,
The cleaving to rap music hopelessly,
Absurdities, like not knowing the rule of your countries,
Yet spurred by things,
Like a celebrity’s outfit,
Its unheard of to me.
The economy is dismal.
Education abysmal.
The amount of sorrow in this world infinitesimal.
Yet the dismissal,
Of all things critical of this world,
Including the Most High,
Begs me to don the mantle of Old Testament,
Mounting movers,
And Earth shakers,
I speak with tones vehement,
Timbre expedient,
Hoping my charged words are the ilk and ingredients,
To galvanize some kind of obedience,
In the old style credence,
Of wisdom and responsibility.
Yet even those words to me sound antiquated,
And I’ve long fought using a spiritual serated,
Knife to sever ties between I and this so called wise,
But surprise.
These feet refuse to sink into the deluge and stink,
And allure of mental or emotional folly.
So I’ll speak out against the foolish axioms,
And the mule-ish adages,
I’ll call out ignorance,
And try to quell the growing tragic,
Nature we are constantly influenced by.

FKJR

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