Death’s Afterlife

With so many visiting and viewing the demise of Hip-Hop in its public

hospice, has anyone given any thought to exactly WHO is directly

responsible for its ravaged condition? Granted, it’s easy to say that

many have contributed to spreading life-threatening poison that have

left it in a state of septic shock; I argue that its venomous

commercialization within a corporate industry can be traced back to one

singular event. One definitive moment in time from one of Hip Hop’s

most acclaimed artists. The ‘bigger than life’ lyricist whom I

speak of is none other than Christopher Wallace a.k.a. The Notorious

B.I.G. – the event is the release and worldwide saturation of his

debut album: Ready to Die.

Prophetically titled, this album marked the proverbial ‘beginning of

the end’ of Hip Hop. What Big brought into this music with his style

and delivery essentially created cancerous replicas that have

overpowered the regenerative properties bred from innovation.

Biggie’s success has fostered a movement that has placed precedence on

abandoning originality as rapper’s poorly mimic such an aboriginal

flow – ironically keeping his legacy alive while effectively killing

the very essence of Hip-Hop in the process.

“D.I.E. Cast Modeling”

Hip Hop needs revivin’.

Switchin’ to pop can’t revitalize it.

What kids have adopted and idolize

is a shell with no ghost.

The reason being is a thesis

That’ll be treasonous to its elitists…

As the trace leads the deceased

to the reaping and selling of its soul.

While a only a small handful

can resuscitate it,

Only one had the balls and can-do

to crush and maim it.

But trust, we don’t hate him –

we venerate him for the

disastrous path of his success.

And though we recognize it needs

to heave with fresh heirs,

We’ve mechanized it to breathe

with a fresh pair of Airs…

It’s a reckless affair –

what he innovated is imitated

in the aftermath of his death.

Big Poppa’s verse brought Hip-Hop’s hearse –

metaphorically and literally speaking.

Big’s thoughts have been cursed

to riddle his offspring’s words –

These toddlers perform as lyrical leaches illegally.

Who can grieve easily when they

bemoan his death by plagiarizin’?!!

So there it is, I’ve said it –

Hip Hop’s been ready to die.

It’s imperative that I spread it –

It’s rhythm stopped when

Big dropped Ready to Die…

He was steady formaldehyde –

as his tone’s frozen death

in an age plagued with pages of lyin’.

From such a fluid influence

Numerous crews have endlessly intruded.

These foolish trend keepers are a nuisance –

their vigor’s aborted.

So many dead men are talking

With pen scrawl jockeying

Are the living dead dawdling –

clenched in the clutches of rigor mortis.

What Big did so notoriously

Wasn’t so unique historically.

Before his reach, N.W.A. and Ice-T

supplied text for young guns in the street.

But what they broached was too controversial.

Biggie’s approach was

more subconsciously versatile…

It was adopted as universal –

less abrasive with finer

finessed ‘tongue in cheek’ speech.

So when rappers glimpsed what Big recorded,

They couldn’t resist the allure to extort it.

Rewriting his hits was enormous! –

it afforded them deals and labels.

So though Biggie Smalls was the illest in rap,

Biggie’s gall is what killed it, in fact…

As Biggie’s Mini-Mes maraud and pilfer

his tracks as they steal from his fables.

His wordplay of hash and bricks

Made hearses take tragic trips.

Mad rappers flipped out into doped MCs.

After him, creativity peaked and crashed quick

As lyrics laced with obscenities for fiends and addicts

Made cats lapse on unclean craftmatics –

taking dirt naps from rote medleys.

While efficiently mimicking his tendencies

for faster lives of fortune,

These Mini-Mes essentially leave

Biggie’s afterlife distorted.

They’ve critically fractured his life supported

with their deathly endeavors.

Much the way cancer replicates itself incessantly

As its anthem suffocates the health of cell integrity…

The wealth of treasury in self-efficacy

lessens from such desperate embezzlers.

These copy and paste lyricists

Are a Xeroxed disgrace to an imperialist.

Hypnotized into deliriousness,

they’re lobotomized zombies.

Stumbling as they walk in Big’s

Timbs and Karl Kanis,

They’re too trim – Slim, these aren’t your size!…

You’re disqualified –

your parchment’s dry like fallen leaves.

Turning his words into

a dirge willed a legacy’s demise,

Interred and fulfilled a destiny to die.

It’s a lesson we’ve denied to learn –

in turn, this is the first of many cycles.

Once resurrected and redirected,

Substance vested must be injected to protect it…

Lest we reinvest this decrepit vestige imbedded

into a dearth that’s intently idle.

Such life that imitates art instigates tragic death

When mics ricochet thoughts of intimidated artists

too afraid to initiate tactics refreshed.

The timid fate of such stagnant success is

indebted to a stupendous patron.

This significance decays the tattered device

Of the Biggest sway of a swaggered rapper’s delight…

As the sickness displayed satisfies

an afterlife of Death In Emulation.

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