When YouTube sent e-mails that you posted your latest work.
You made our belly’s rumble with excitement before we ever heard your voice.
You always wanted to be remembered.
You saw fame like a bulletproof vest.
We forgot to tell you that words kill.
We played your songs hoping that ringing of gun shell applause would stop.
When you heard the shots go out did you think that it was the backbeat to the latest bounce song?
Do you regret that your last words tasted like gun smoke?
Mothers always tell their children to not be messy,
When you took the name, did you expect so many people to follow?
You asked “Who’s gon pop the Messy Mya”?
Are you satisfied with the answer?
Does the music you loved so much sound better from above?
When they called you messy did you mistake that for a compliment?
St. Anthony and North Rosh ablaze
How fitting that God had angels dispatched on short notice,
1 month before your birthday
1 month before your son’s first day.
I wonder if his breathing labored since he would now be living for two.
He will only know his father in nine minute intervals.
Did we not call your death a hate crime because you were too dark to have a law named after you
When you would say “Follow me camera.”
We were not supposed to follow you long enough for twitter to swallow your last breaths.
You had so many hits that day.
Did you feel them?
Do they still weight you down?
Children still have your death on their screensaver as to not forget
New Orleans has no more room to bury.