Harlem’s son, born in rebellion’s fierce womb.
Black Panther blood, pulsing through poet’s veins.
Street prophet, spitting truth in a world’s deaf ears.
Marin City dreamer, rising from poverty’s chains.
Rap’s raw voice, carving scars into beats.
Dear Mama, a hymn etching love’s eternal ache.
Thug Life inked, a code defying elite scorn.
Death Row’s star, blazing through gangsta’s haze.
His rhymes: daggers slicing America’s lies.
Actor’s spark, igniting Juice’s brutal screen.
Prison’s cage, framing a revolutionary’s soul,
@2Pac: ghetto bard, power’s relentless foe.
“Changes” preached, exposing systemic rot.
Police brutality called out, sparking riots’ flame.
His voice: a Molotov for the voiceless’ pain.
Panther legacy, mother’s fight his guiding star.
Bullet scars worn, proof of survival’s cost.
mshairi wa vita, his words a global revolt.
East-West feud, a trap that bled him dry.
Vegas night, bullets stealing breath too soon.
His death: a wound still bleeding in culture’s heart.
Poetic Justice, romancing with a gangster’s grace.
All Eyez on Me, defiance in every glare.
His aura: fire and ice, untamed by fame.
Jail cells endured, yet spirit never bowed.
FBI’s target, shadowed by their watchful eyes.
His fight: a war against oppression’s cold grip.
Gangsta poet, weaving hope through despair’s lens.
Misogyny’s stain, a flaw he couldn’t dodge.
His truth: raw, jagged, human to the bone.
Activist’s heart, railing at injustice’s throne.
Some sneered: “Thug, not saviour, preaching chaos.”
Others saw a prophet, bleeding for the lost.
Makaveli’s shadow, plotting through death’s dark veil.
Hologram ghost, haunting stages years beyond.
His legacy: a spark that power couldn’t douse.
Brenda’s Got a Baby, crying society’s shame.
Fatherless son, yet father to a generation’s rage.
His art: a mirror to the streets’ unspoken grief.
From Oakland’s grit to hip-hop’s sacred throne.
He wielded words like switchblades-
sharp, defiant, cutting through a nation’s numb core.