If I shed Two Tears For Him, Poetic Letter

After several times of hearing DJ Khaled's song "Hip Hop," featuring Nas, I decided to write a response. It's too long to be a poem or song, so let's call it a poetic letter. 

If I Shed Two Tears For Him

And if I shed two tears for him, that would be the least that I would give to him. From cassettes to mixtapes and then getting lost within the internet he fucked me up, but I fell in love. A love so untamed he don’t even remember that I used to be what was up, and yet he’s still addicted, feigning for what he’ll never understand,  and yearning because he thinks with me he can still be a better man.

And if I shed two tears for him, I’d cry for the boy he used to be. Late nights next to the radio, on the phone with friends, he could hear me in the background.  But that didn’t matter. In his mind he couldn’t wait to get me all alone, maybe we could be friends, and eventually I would be all his. Wasting no time from the start he was making love to me, touching, discovering who he was in me. Together we discovered the meaning of freaking as we searched for the rawest parts of each other. He was looking to release unique energy, get hard, spread my legs apart, and experience something he’d never known before. But as I saw the talent within all I wanted was his heart.

And if I shed two tears for him, I’d cry for the talent he never learned to control. It was a rough start, two minds in two different places, but I was determined to become a teacher and get him to focus. And that was when the words started to flow “She used to tell me she was all mine. Now the only way I see the broad is online.” Initially the talent spilled, hours in the studio, his dedication I could feel. So with my loving I kept him going, telling him he was good, promoting his music, and counting the record sales. But competition hit, new men came into the picture, all wanting a piece of me.

And if I shed two tears for him, it would be for the woman he underestimated me to be. Competitive battles, new rhymes, new beats, and although he could compete he wasn’t sure he wanted to. And as my focus turned elsewhere, his money spread elsewhere. He met Champaigne, became tempted by two girls name Chardonnay and Alize, and was offered large sums of money to drink the pain away, which led to him eventually deciding he hated me. While these other men started playing me, he came up with words; ways he thought would taint me for good. “Wasn’t trying to claim her to myself, she’s yours. You can have her, she’s a mothafucking whore.” And he was right.

And if I shed two tears for him, that would be the least that I would give to him. I’ve been ran through. The men are still creating off of me, diving in, losing their innocence, and gaining money and the fame in the process. He’s there too. With all the names he can call, Bitch, heaux, shone, and gold digger. He fucked me up, but just like me he fell in love. I am Hip Hop.