Right Now, I'm Not Where I'm Supposed to Be...

Right now, I'm supposed to be at the Vagabond... taking in Stone Groove...but because of the events on June 25, 2009...instead, I am stuck at the yard...With the third replay of Michael Joseph Jackson's funeral playing on the television...stuck with all these thoughts, these reflections on life, and the lives we live, because inspiration can come in many forms, and for every end, there is another beginning...

Many people have many opinions of the man they called the "King of Pop," but the one thing you cannot take away from him, is his catalog of work, his dedication to his art, his work ethic, you can't tek dat from the man...Straight...As an artist, you realize that he started performing at age 5, and continued performing, 45 years strong, now that star, is what dem call true dedication...he performed, literally, till the day he died...and no one can deny his humanitarian accomplishments...it is just sad, that when the man was alive, they tore him down, every chance they could get, and I feel like he was never able to truly enjoy his success, because, it sometimes seemed as if it became his burden to carry, and, yo, I know, there were all the allegations, and if they are true, then more fire, but I don't claim to know the truth, but you can't tek whe di man legacy...."He without sin, come cast the first stone" so I'm not here to judge...

With that said, PEACE to the living, Jah bless the deceased, God bless the deceased, REST IN PEACE to all who have passed...not just the famous, but the everyday regular people, the same people that Arrested Development use to sing about...all the mothers, the fathers, the sons, the brothers, the sisters, the daughters, the cousins, the nephews, the nieces...Bless your soul...



Every artist, whether he or she wants to admit it, yearns for immortality, proof that all the pain they endured was not for nothing, that people can remember long after they are gone, the words they left behind, their works of art, their sculptures, their paintings, their children, their buildings, their civilizations, pieces of the soul for the ones closest to enjoy, and if you're lucky, for the entire world to enjoy, and maybe these words,these pieces, will ignite some form of change, perhaps a revolution, maybe the strength to endure the unbearable, the motivation to improve one's self, just make a change, some way, some how, all artists yearn for this, some secretly more than others, they all yearn for proof that they existed...proof that they were here, proof that it was real...

So if you're still reading this...Here is a piece I wrote a few years ago, it seems more than ever, relevant today...A little piece of my soul...Enjoy...

Note to self:

Every day, every night, I leave trails to my existence, so my words can unite, and forever spell R-E-S-I-S-T-A-N-C-E

So I write & ignite, so the people can remember, all my thoughts and my life, when I see my last December

It's my gift to the world, and I hope that she can hear it, on a tape, or CD, so the people, they can share it

Or in print, in a book, for my children's education, so they know how to act, in the face of their frustration

And it's true that my words, may never reach your radio station, but beware when my words inspire generations

Words never die, so do know this - this is just proof that I did exist...

The only thing I want in life is proof that I existed, so when you hear my name, breddren, don't get it twisted

I fight with my music, hit the track double-fisted, so when my life has passed, I hope I never say "I missed it...damn"

This is just a self-declaration of the existence of my generation, simply put, this is just how I feel, and sometimes I feel like life isn't real

Counterfeit, maybe just an illusion, so I had to clear up any kind of confusion

I'm writing, between the blue lines I'm fighting, to prove I was here, words fit for reciting

If I lose my life tonight, the proof I was here is the words that I write

Enlightening myself, the proof of my existence, so when they reminisce, my god...They'll reminisce on my resistance...

My life extends through the ink in my pen, to connect the words so my thoughts live again…In hopes that they all one day comprehend, that all I need to know is I exist in the end...

Whenever that time does arrive, this is just proof that I really was alive

My soul lives on in the words that survive; the soul never dies between the blue lines...memba dat

This is my story, I hope you caught the gist, that this is just proof that I did exist...

Sincerely yours,

Coppa Stone