Through A Man's Head

This note is graphical..kindly avoid reading if you are a sensitive person.

Blood splattered on the windows, a white substance dripping from the walls.
Flies buzzing from his mouth with a stench that could cling on to your clothes for days.
I saw all of this through a huge hole in a mans head.
Why did he have to put a revolver in his mouth and blow his brains out?
Standing behind him, I dreaded seeing his face, or perhaps the remains of it.
He sat in that swingable chair, with his legs twisted in a fashion only him could explain.
A cigarette butt with a black hole on the carpet, he must have drawn-in a last smoke.
...and as his cat smoothly walked in on me like nothing wrong ever happened,
I soon realised how lonely he must have felt before his demise.
A demise he must have brought upon himself for some reason.
A reason he must have entertained for some time.
A time he must have chosen for some lie.
A lie he must have believed in exchange for his life...
With a sigh, I looked for a note or perhaps a recorded tape..there must have been something..
He wouldnt just die like that without telling a soul why he did it.
I gave up within the hour after hitting the light switch and nothing happened.
It was getting too dark in there and I left my specks in the car.
I could see blood stained mail and unopened electric bills piled-up on the floor.
I disgustedly chased the cat busy leaking his brains off the wall..she must have been hungry.
From the smell, the poor man pulled his trigger more than a week ago.
It was now pitch black but I couldnt just leave without seeing his face.
The cops said they'd be there in the next minute..as they always promise.
I turned him on his chair to see his face..........
I couldnt believe that the man sitted in that chair was................. ME!!!

( We die spiritually before we realise it..."its the little foxes that destroy the vine"...
song of solomon 2:15 )

My Identity

I spit my mind onto this crazy beat

as I feel the mic reverberate my voice.

They clap their hands and stomp their feet

and their ears hear without a choice.

I came here, to a night of coldness,

surrounded by these infinite crowds.

To connect them through a mic thats cordless,

and put an end to their nimbus clouds.

By the flowing of their blood, my words find tempo.

With the rushing of their nerves, from their heads to the knees.

By the beating of their hearts, my God finds temple.

In the twitching of their muscles, I promise them ease.

I create a rhythm that their bodies wont resist..

I elate a freedom that their bondage wont consist..

The weapon i use does not profit the richer,

but its more than a clenched fist.

The identity I use is not prophet or preacher,

but its more than a rap artist.

Who am I?....*read Psalm 8:4-6*