Title: “Truth, Back to Back”
Papa,
It’s about time somebody told you the truth,
Not whispers, not rumors—just unfiltered proof.
Not from anger, not from a place of hate,
But from a son who carried this weight.
How you call yourself a humanitarian,
But every good deed needs a microphone stand?
You help a man today, tell ten tomorrow,
A real humanitarian moves in silence, not borrowed glory.
True help don’t need applause or a crowd,
You do it, walk away, you don’t speak it out loud.
If people gotta know every good thing you do,
Then ask yourself, Papa—who is it really for, you or them too?
How you took care of villages, streets, and kin,
But somehow your own house kept feeling thin.
How helping everyone else became priority one,
And your children grew up learning how to go without, just to survive and run.
How does giving to the world make sense,
When it ended up taking from your own fence?
How can a man save everyone outside his door,
But inside, the cost was paid by the ones who loved him more?
Why every conversation come with direction?
Orders, commands, no room for reflection.
Every talk feel like a drill, a decree,
Like respect only comes from authority, not empathy.
Leadership ain’t barking orders to feel tall,
Sometimes it’s lowering your voice, sometimes it’s listening at all.
Strength ain’t always in being loud or right,
Sometimes strength is choosing calm over fight.
Papa, it’s time to slow your pace,
Calm the storm, soften the face.
You don’t have to dominate every room you enter,
The strongest men know when to surrender.
Do the right thing, not for praise or fame,
Not so people clap or remember your name.
Do it because it’s right, simple and true,
Not because someone’s watching you.
This ain’t rebellion, disrespect, or war,
It’s accountability knocking at your door.
I’m not here to fight, prove, or explain,
I’m here to tell the truth plain.
That’s it—that’s all I came to say,
No long goodbye, no extra play.
Peace out.
Mic drop.
I’m out—deuces.
