Big Brother probably has me blackmailed,
for something I did in practically a past life,
never was one for playing the back field,
always more than kinda liked the spotlight,

plus I was comfortable it,
look how smooth I moved,
a fine guy a good man,
a bad boy but a cool dude,

not the type to stress you out,
or mess about and be rude to you,
nope no ma’am not him so how,
did they blackmail him oh well boo hoo,

can’t cry over spilt guilt,
can’t die over pet regrets,
you’ll survive that’s why they call it will,
not Smith’s kid but gifted yet no stress I’m set,

so let them watch me,
if anything they’re probably protecting me,
the New World Order has to have a face,
call me The Not So Anonymous Conglomerate of Everything,

stop freaking out everything’s fine,
and I can’t think of anything to do about it but type,
maybe make love do a few drugs,
then get back to the grind,

lost my mind,
tell me have you seen it,
it’s dark in here and there are cobwebs,
call me a cab I don’t have to be convinced I mean it,

Jesus,
Mary and Joseph,
I wouldn’t even believe I wrote this,
if I wasn’t the one that was there when He wrote this,

he as in me but anyways,
it doesn’t matter nothing does these days,
might flash a wave as we roll by on the freeway,
but other than that I don’t have much free time,

wanna know a not so abstract fact about Yours Truly,
sure why not let’s get to the plot of this movie,
I’m still living with my regrets,
can’t shake em like an ocean swim and I’m still wet,

this might not be a movie but it definitely feels like a movie set,

I guess,
all these screens I’m seeing these days has me confused,
I don’t know the real me nor do I know the real you,
I mean I thought I liked you but then I met YouTube,
and now well I just don’t have time hope I’m not being too rude,

it’s just these days I spend more time on computers than I do on you,

or with you,
and I’m sorry it seems it’s easier not to care,
go out this days and see Fifty Shades of Gray,
but not the shades that come with underwear,

the shades,
that come with disconnection,
as what used to be turn on tune in drop out,
begins getting spun in the opposite direction,

drop in turn out and turn off,
and this is the part,
where I don’t know if I should continue,
or if I should just stop,

so I stop,
don’t want to do anything I’d regret,
because I know They would love to blackmail me,
and they would’ve already if they had something to blackmail me with,

but they don’t having anything to use against me yet,
as I squint my eyes and focus on the TV set,
okay it’s not a TV it’s a computer but what’s the difference,
gosh this has been one heck of a ride are we there yet,

I give up let’s get going,
I’m ready to get off this ride,
leave this confused amusement park,
maybe go for a five day trek outside,

camp under countless stars,
lay on my back and gaze at the sky,
where I can be safe and at peace from the breath of the beast,
no screens nor cameras no intrusive spying prying eyes,

just myself with the Creator,
“Thank God I’m Alive!”,
then take another breath in and end with,
“Peace To All See You On The Other Side.”,

hi,
I too am in this experimental life,
please remind me of your name,
and enlighten me as to why we’re alive,

Big Brother probably has me blackmailed,
for somethings I possibly did in a past life,
never was one for playing the back field,
always more than kinda liked the spotlight…

∆ LaLux ∆

Who cares who shot JFK I wanna know who shot Tupac,
who cares about the CIA's JFK Files release date,
it’s 2017 and I’m on a plane watching All Eyez On Me,
flying westbound outta the Westside of LA,
on All Hallow’s Eve and it’s all feeling kinda spooky,
because I’m on this plane with another Libra The Boy Drake,

and I don’t care who shot JFK,
I want to know who shot Tupac,
met Suge two times and got the feeling he didn’t,
plus when they hit Pac even Suge got two shots,

so who shot Tupac,
as I write with all I’ve got,
in red ink as my red eyes blink,
pen lines looking like blood drops,

all eyes on me,
until my eternal slumber,
but enough about the words,
what about the numbers,

75 million albums sold,
713 songs,
7 films that’s 777,
same as the title of the latest book I put out,

seems Tupac and I,
share a mutual obsession with the #7,
plus his last album Killuminati was subtitled 7 Day Theory,
not to mention the fact that Pac was shot on September 7th,

as I trace the early similarities,
between me and Tupac,
I think back to when I almost signed with Suge,
and I too feel like Tupac,

I too was raised in New York,
I too got put on in LA,
I too almost lost my soul in Vegas,
I too am both profane and a saint,
I too feel confused and conflicted,
I too both sin and pray,
I too write with a sense of urgency,
because I too know tomorrow isn’t promised today,

I too have found my street instincts to be risky,
I too have gotten it on at the Luxor,
I too know there’s a thin line,
between Love & Hate and between Enemies & Lovers,

trapped between over the top celebrities,
and detectives undercover,
and I’ll a pirate sailor sailing high,
but still I have to fight from going over,

oh Lord,
forgive me for I know not what I do,
and maybe the reason I feel guilty,
is because I waste my gifts on **** and *****,

choose,
your own adventure,

lost,
caught up in the trap that’s why they call it a trap,
winnin’ till when that window rolls down and you don’t know,
if it’s gonna be a gun shot or a camera snap,

I know what’s coming even though I don’t know when,

signing my own death certificate,
like Pac signing to Death Row,
see he thought he was just giving Suge his Music,
but really what he was giving him was his soul,

nobody know when they’re gonna go,
we’re at the table at the Last Supper till they pull our card,
which I guess is sickeningly befitting,
considering Tupac was shot in Vegas on Las Vegas Blvd.,

and all that’s left of him,
is this movie that I watch on this plane,
and what’s happened to our music,
lost Tupac and gained Drake,

and that’s not a shot at Drake,
I mean Drake’s cool,
I’m flying with him to Australia,
but Drake doesn’t have Tupac’s soul,

our music has been watered down,
now Hip Hop sounds like Pop Rock,
I mean how can you even compare,
Hotline Bling to Keep Your Head Up,

what the fck,

how’d we go from Black Panther,
to ***** cat,
how’d we go from I Ain’t Mad At Cha,
to Best I Ever Had,

and I’m not even mad,
I mean I respect Drake for sure,
he gets that money and has always been good to me,
but Drake is no Tupac that’s for sure,

but I won’t elaborate further because,
we all know what happens when you ask too many questions,
so I’ll just keep getting my money and writing my books,
& keep going to church without admitting confessions,

and I’m ending,
this poem right here with an RIP,
RIP to Tupac,
Rest In Peace,

another leader slain,
and I’m so caught up I forgot what I was saying,
even forgot where I was,
which is flying westbound on this plane,

writing verses in blood red ink,
feeling like Pac All Eyes on me,
wondering who shot Tupac pen lines like blood drops,
as I write what I think with all that I’ve got in ink,

ink as red as my red eyes that blink,
sending this poem off as a literary Hail Mary,
with California Love even those it’s Me Against the World,
Keep Your Head Up & congratulations Brenda’s Got A Baby,

and I know I’ll likely Live & Die in LA,
so I wonder if there’s a Heaven for a G,
& if there is Dear Mama I’ll meet you at **** Mansion,
& please know I Ain’t Mad At Cha but I’ve gotta go so peace…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

30/10/17