Ride Or Die

I began walking home, it was seven at night, I had my black hoodie, my black sweats, and my black shoes, in my pocket, over three hundred dollars cash. I got to my street, as usual, the same people everyday, the ones on the corner acting like they are doing nothing, but as soon as you pass them, they want you to buy something, one tried me the other day. But my look on my face made him say, "Oh. Nevermind, aye, do me a favor don't rat me out, I got a family..." I was across the street by then, I opened the door to my house. My dad was in the kitchen. My older brother was sitting in the living room. I walked up to my room and got to the big walk-in closet, I opened that door, the lights turned on. There was my booth, the table holding up my laptop, my notebook, my microphone, and as always, the portrait of mom. I began working on a new beat. I rapped to it, I heard my door crack open. It was Rhonda, James, and Calvin, they flopped on the bed and began to watch TV, then my father walked in. He stopped at the bed.
"A word with my son? Five minutes."
"Come on." Rhonda said getting up, they followed, they shut the door on the way out. My father walked in my quote unquote studio. He just looked at me, a big box in his hand, I stood up. Faced him like a man just like he taught me.
"I never thought you would see this day, after years and years of hard work, I'd thought you'd give up. But, now you and Lamar are living proof that I raised champions, not losers."
"What's in the box, dad?" I asked trying to get him to the point. He walked to my bed. He flopped the box on there.
"Open it, son." He got out the way. I put my hands out and gripped the box, I then slid off the top. What I was looking at, was dad's lucky microphone, a gold and black one. Under the mic, was a small beat pad. Bass one.
"Now, you have a challenge, you got the lucky touch. If you can get your kids a good or decent home, make a good living, provide for them, while focusing on the music, you will earn all respect. Not only that, my old studio."
"Dad, you're lying."
"Don't let me down." He walked away. My older brother walked in.
"You got it, now can you prove you got the rhymes and heart?"
"I got the lucky mic." I said.
"Look, I may not be a rapper, or a poet, but I know that rapping isn't about rhyming, it's about speaking the truth in a rhythmically way. It isn't to brag about how much cash you make in a day, it's to speak your mind and inform how you make your way. Rap is about truth, God's music." He got up, took one good look at me. "I got the lucky mic." He laughed, "Man keep pushing yourself, one day you'll look back on this day and be able to make a song about ti maybe." He walked out. I couldn't help it, I began dancing. Then I grabbed the microphone, I felt a shock of energy run through my hand to my head, and to my whole body. It's about to go down.