Open Mic: The Poet

No windows inside that attic, that was the writing space
The pensive poet wrote scriptures on every page
Descriptions of welfare and how he lost his job the day before
Nowadays he turns to sleepin on the neighbors floor
Its hard for him to energize himself throughout the day
Broke and unemployed, his mother dyin of AIDS
Feelins of worthlessness circlin without a thought to cope
The pen was out of its ink as far as the words he wrote
How he embraced the nature of placin a paper
Dead center on top a table to pour his feelins and fables
The pensive poet was noble, his mother witnessed him shine
By the time hes 42 now, her life is on the line
It was a threat to his happiness, knew he needed her guidance
For the first time, he tried to tackle everything that God is
The idea of losing the golden key to the spirit
They both knew the hour glass was turned, and they could hear it runnin
He rocked the same dirty t shirt almost every day
Thats all he had for that matter, he couldnt get his way
The mother teased him by her hospital bed
Usin laughter as medicine, all the pain in her head
Went numb soon as she saw the glowin smile he brought
Only cared for his well being, never gave hers a thought
See it was smiles in room 204, all the vibes were peace
Till he got home and couldnt help but to drop to his feet
Beggin to God for the first time and the last
Cause hes the only one to help but he hated that simple fact
Because to him, Gods the cause of this
If he watched over his children then why would he go out his way to make his mama sick?
Nothin made sense, no.. absolutely none
But all he had was his mama.... plus a pen and a gun

Which one...

9AM, rainy day in the city
All the skies movin cloudy and the streets look gritty
Its just the poet and his mother now, as it always was
Both miserable, clenchin each others hands with love
The poet shed a tear, the mother bat her eyes
This was their final moment, as she would slowly die
"I love you mama, this isnt goodbye
Keep my thoughts with your soul, until the day i come by
Them gold gates with my name on the list, cause ill be there
And i will be with you, eternity can deal with that"
And after that it was a wrap
The beepin turnin to buzzin, the line had went flat
She was gone... he was facin the fears
Of bein homeless with no mother with whom he could endear
The pain and agony of loneliness would overtake him by the week
He could feel the devil tuggin at his feet
All he had up in that attic of his neighbors was a desk
And a picture of him and mother before her last breath...
It was a daily routine, tears and poetry
24 hours turn to 48 slowly...
And every waking day hes feeling like the point is corrupt
What was life here to offer him? He dont give a fuck
He lost his mom and felt that God betrayed
He prayed and prayed for days and weeks and thats how he repays him?
In the aftermath hes down to 2 options.. the pen and the gun
He usually wasnt a man that would choose to run
But the demons were creeping, he could see in the distance
He loaded in the .22, it'd all be an instant
And as I write this, i hold the gun to my skull
The ink runnin its course, the pen is startin to dull
This wasnt a retelling, so to whom i gave hope
I am the pensive poet, this here is my suicide note
*gunshot*