I ain’t no Shakespeare, I’m a scripture in sneakers, my verses bleed ink like veins cut by speakers. The block schooled me harder than chalk on a board, each corner a classroom, each hustle a sword. Teacher told me crack the dictionary, chase the old tongue, but the street gave me bullets of words that stay young. I read pain in graffiti, I studied hunger in scars, I turned silence into weapons, wrote my rhymes in the stars. They baptized me in shadows, called me their only son, my mind a loaded chamber, truth cocked in the gun. I don’t bow to dead kings, no crown on my page — I wear the hood’s wisdom like armor of rage. Now my poems walk alleys, my metaphors sip gin, my stanzas cut throats with the blade of the pen. I’m the verse of the forgotten, the gospel of the block, a prophet with a pad, breaking chains with my talk.