2pac Poetry Book Novels & Stories

“They’re about private wounds.” Franc nodded, understanding etched into his features. “But shared healing.” They curated a small chapbook: “Places Silence Shaped Us.” Thirty pages. Each with a poem, a sketch, a truth. They didn’t distribute widely. Just copies in the studio, tucked among supplies and leaning against chipped mugs filled with dried brushes. One guest read the poem about Yam’s panic attack, fingers trembling slightly as they left a note: “Your chaos matched mine. I don’t feel like a puzzle piece anymore.”

Mark became so comfortable and confident that he began rhythmically nodding his head to the club dj's Latin hip-hop mash-up of Daddy Yankee, De La Ghetto and Vico C. There was a sinister reason behind why 2Pac wasn’t fighting back. He was scanning Mark’s suit to see if he could find any integrity violations. The metal soldier went through his database of past prisoners he executed, and he searched for the cleanest and most efficient way to kill Mark.

Things forgotten touch me now— & they’re clouding me w/ forgiveness, rethinking the time I was asked the question I knew I would never understand, but that question brings things—slow walks, time & space, Fleetwood Mac glistening living rooms w/ home & midnight specials—wrapped w/ the cellophane intention that such question I wouldn’t forget could somehow become a beautiful title for a first book in poetry.

I whisper. This time, the tears don’t feel like weakness. They feel like healing. Like something finally beginning. ************************ Unspoken Desires - Book 3…. Coming Soon

I only had a year to find my answers, no distractions was a good way to start. "Venus, honey, are you ready?" My mom called me from the kitchen, as I opened my bedroom door. "Yes, mom be right there." I called back. Walking towards the kitchen, I was singing Famous Last Words out loud. "I am not afraid to keep on living, I am not afraid to walk this world alone, honey if you stay I'll be forgiven, Nothing you can say can stop me going home. Can you see my eyes are shining bright? Cause I'm out here on the other side of a jet black hotel mirror and I'm so weak..."

he says, his tone completely flat. "No, you're not! Look... I know what I like. I love pussy. I fucked three girls in one night once. I was so obsessed, I practically did things I'm not legal to do before I turned legal. "Sounds like the typical existential crisis of an over-privileged, under-supervised American teenager." "My point is..." He just continues to puff smoke, waiting. "Your point is..." he repeats and my hand fist my hair. He casually stubs his cigarette out in the overflowing ash tray.

An hour later, after searching for anything to help us within books that ranged from brand new to hundreds of years old, I huffed with disappointment and decided to stretch my legs; my pale finger trailed over the spines of books, dust painting my fingertip. Once I reached the poetry section, I smiled brightly. All around me were books from Silvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickson, Robert Frost, and many others that were like my old friends. Taking a random book off the shelf, I flipped through its contents. "(...) Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home." ~ Tecumseh "You enjoy poetry too?" A familiar voice spoke behind me, making my heart speed up as I jumped slightly. Turn

“As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…I take a look at my life, and realize there's nothin' left…'Cause I've been blastin' and laughin' so long…That even my momma thinks that my mind is gone….But I ain't never crossed a man that didn't deserve it…Me be treated like a punk, you know that's unheard of…You better watch how you talkin' and where you walkin’…Or you and your homies might be lined in chalk…I really hate to trip, but I gotta loc…As they croak, I see myself in the pistol smoke…Fool, I'm the kinda G the little homies wanna be like…On my knees in the night, sayin' prayers in the streetlight…Been spendin' most their lives livin' in the gangsta's paradise…Been spendin' mos

However, Larry just found it laughable. "The Northern Trade Center had just had a terrorist attack yesterday, and the healing center is full of injured and wounded pack members. And yet, you still had time to think about decorum?" Erina's expression finally turned cold. "I was also traumatized. The scratches caused by the silver dust don't feel great. And besides, the pack has its own funds. You should not need to use your own money to fill in the gaps."

Russell Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Stuck On You and Other Prime Cuts by Jasper Bark Poetry collections: WAR by Alessandro Manzetti and Marge Simon Brief Encounters with My Third Eye by Bruce Boston No Mercy: Dark Poems by Alessandro Manzetti Eden Underground: Poetry of Darkness by Alessandro Manzetti If you’ve ever thought of becoming an author, we’d also like to recommend these non-fiction titles: The Dead Stage: The Journey from Page to Stage by Dan Weatherer