So much time Why wait? I grabbed the Pen Let my tales spin True Story… Real Rap… So deep It’s not often But sometimes tears creep down my cheek Sometimes… I feel stuck Down on my luck. Most times… I be writing, Creating freedom with my Pen My Pen stroke is deep Courts don’t feel me… Fuck ‘Em I’m solid So the streets feel me I wonder if Allah hears me This cell is vicious So I started writing fiction To escape the reality Late night the walls talk Moan and scream Fiction or a dream? Drive me mad or perfect my craft I decided To scribble hearts for love’s art Love is what’s on my heart Peace on my mind When my professor call, the opportunity is a check Everything my Pen touches is for freedom… You Heard
The time then has arrived, Glaucon, When, like huntsman, we should surround the cover and look sharp that Justice may not steal away, and pass out of sight and escape us; for beyond a doubt she is somewhere in this country: watch therefore and strive to catch a sight of her, and if you see her first, let me know… (This quote is from Socrates, in his pursuit of justice.) See I’ve been looking for lady Justice myself, and it seems like she’s been avoiding me specifically. Like Socrates, I’ve enlisted the help of my friends and family, but their interest in justice is not as keen as mine, so when they spotted her she stole away. My family and friends were there when justice was stolen from me. Now I sense that they believe since she’s gone, she’s gone forever. But they don’t understand the hunt. So here I sit with foggy binoculars, and I’m looking for her. It all happened On August 28, 2013: I was in a fierce battle against the state of New Jersey, for my freedom. It was the thick of the rumble: jury deliberations. I waited in angst for a verdict in a holding cell in the back of courtroom number five, where the jury deliberated my fate… Guilty or innocent At 12:15 PM, the sheriffs escorted me out of the holding cell back into judge Delury’s Court room. “The jury sent a note marked as C-19.” Said the judge. “The note read ‘believes that one of the people on the jury came in with a decision made that all non-police witnesses are not credible, only the police department is credible’ ”. Juror number 9 wrote the note. I sat at the defense table listening through HEADPHONES while the judge, the Prosecutor, and my attorney had a sidebar conversation. The conversation ultimately led to them agreeing to allow the jury to deliberate undisturbed. I was returned to the holding cell to await my fate. “Please lord don’t let me get found guilty tonight” was my prayer. I paced the concrete floor wondering how should I feel about the note? Good or bad? I didn’t know. I paced the cell worried, but strong, uncertain, but content with my Lord’s plan. “ANOTHER NOTE!” The sheriff yelled as he banged on the plexiglass window to the holding cell. “Another note?” I wondered as I was being escorted back into the courtroom I smiled at my family who filled the rows behind me. They seemed worried We all listened as the court Read the note onto the record. The forewoman wrote “Juror number 4 is not impartial to the witnesses and refuses to accept circumstantial evidence. We cannot move on at this point with 11-1. ” At this point, I believed that this numerical split “11-1” meant a hung jury, and I would have to be retried. I was wrong!!! The looks that were on the faces of my family members was painful. I smiled, even though my heart was being ripped from my chest. My lawyer was whispering something in my ear, my heart was beating, and I was wondering in whose favor was the jury? The elusive answer was lurking within the thick tension inside courtroom number 5. I was hoping that the world would never know, cause I had a feeling that all these white old people, that made up a jury of my peers, was not letting a nigga go. The court called the jury Into the courtroom. Twelve angry white jurors. The judge asked the jury “will further deliberations help you to reach a verdict?” The forelady replied with a curt “No!” After admonishing the jury with an instruction, to keep deliberating, the Court sent the jury back into the jury room “Whew!” This shit is getting thick, and it seemed like all of these Court officials were on some bullshit, and my peoples were feeling the same way. Judge agreeing with the prosecutor, and my lawyer just mumbling shit. Though I was concerned I kept my composure, remaining firm for my family, and after all they were 11-1. That elusive answer still remained: IN WHOSE FAVOR WAS THE JURY? They could still be in my favor. I had hope. Immediately after sending the JURY back TO DELIBERATE, THE COURT WAS BACK ON RECORD. “UNDER UNUSUAL CIRCUMSTANCES, I CALLED JURY NUMBER 9 INTO MY CHAMBER’S TO DISCUSS THE NOTE SHE SENT.” “What!?” I knew deep in my heart that this was wrong. How could a judge speak to a Juror outside the presence of me and my lawyer. The fix was in. My back was against the ropes, the ref was throwing low blows, and the contender was throwing haymakers. What’s a nigga to do? I prayed. Now, whatever discussion the judge had with Juror nine he learned what was supposed to be the secrecy of deliberations. He knew in whose favor the jury was. Now, he would work it. The judge called each juror out of the jury’s room one by one, asking them about their feelings in regards to juror four; the lone dissenting juror. In the face of all the above, Juror number four switched his not guilty into a guilty—and the judge sentenced me to one hundred thirty years. Damn! Strapped with the memory of my trial, I did a lot of research on ex parte communications between a judge and a deliberating juror, so that I could be ready for the appellate division. When I received the transcripts to my trial, I immediately noticed that the transcripts were not reflecting the unusual event between the Court and juror number nine “Hold up!” I said to myself “this can’t be right” I wrote to my appellate attorney. Explaining that, something was missing from the transcripts, and we needed the Sound Recording to my trial My attorney wrote back saying that she spoke with the stenographer ADELE TALASNIK, and the stenographer does not have this event that I complained about happening in her stenographer notes, and my trial was NOT SOUND RECORDED. Damn! It was clear from the letter that my attorney didn’t believe me. I read the letter several times. The stenographers name sticks out. Adele Talasnik.I just couldn’t put a finger on it. I ask my self why was my trial not sound recorded, in this day and age, is this even true? I dig in, doing my research on trial recordings and a stenographer’s duty. I refused to allow anyone to tell me what happened at my trial, didn’t happen. One day while going through some paper work, I came across the name MURRAY TALASNIK. He was the prosecutor that took my case to the grand jury, and signed a warrant in my case. Wow! Adele Talasnik and Murray Talasnik are married! It all added up. Murray Talasnik had a complete interest in the outcome of my case. No wonder why they doctored the transcripts. At this point I’ve done everything that I could do. I filed motions, wrote, called, researched, and wrote some more. My family members spoke with Adele Talasnik, and she told them my trial was NOT sound recorded. I spoke with the supervisor of court reporters, Camille Pedano Horner. I explained to her that Adele Talasnik was married to the prosecutor in my case. She told me not to believe everything that I hear… Bitch I Googled it! Through correspondence with the Administrative Office of The Courts, Karen M. Carroll wrote me and told me that every courtroom in Atlantic County is equipped with sound recording technology. If the courtrooms in Atlantic County are equipped with this technology why wasn’t my trial sound recorded? And who determines when it’s on or off? It has taken me years of research in the outdated law library that I have access to, but eventually I found the law that said it was against the law for Adele Talasnik to record my trial since she was married to the prosecutor. New Jersey Court rule 4:12-4, says that Adele Talasnik should’ve been disqualified… This made it clear that Adele Talasnik broke the law. Finally on October 1, 2020, the Board of Court reporters, sent me a vague letter, saying that they would open an investigation on Adele Talasnik. It’s now 2022, and I still haven’t heard anything… Not even a response to my follow up letters. It seems like nobody cares and no one’s listening. I Feel like my voice has been taken. Like so many other brothers incarcerated by injustice. So, I write and speak with ink. I refuse to be silenced by this crooked ass system…. GIVE ME BACK MY VOICE BITCHES
I’m in a prison that’s about two hundred years old All bones No soul No wonder why this place is so cool
No hope in this place only despair Releases from here is rare This air is stale The tension is thick NO Shank I move with a black fist held high Black pride
Even though in his prison I might die I’ve been denied my rights By a stenographer who was white The prosecutor is related to her He whispered in her ear Nepotism put me in here They did it with no regard for the law
My only recourse I wrote to the court But, no one’s listening to them I’m just Nigga In prison
Deadlocked jury Judge stole my glory Called juror number nine into his chambers this is the new way that they hang us this system is dangerous
In this prison so many Who are actually innocent The judge gave them a sentence That they would never finish Same judge give me 130 years That’s when my soul disappeared I’m still here Just a shell — Oh well What the fuck– what the hell I’ma fight Till they get it right No justice, no peace black lives matter Motha fucka
The Chocolate Assassin was wrapped in a double breasted Brioni Suit. Blue. No hat just frames Ray Bands. Cigar smoke was his atmosphere. Big Pinky ring—Diamond bling dancing off the lights.
A jazz band was blowing a note.
His date’s ebony – brown was light. She had a supermodels’ taste. She was petite enough ass for him to grab. Her eyes were round and brown. She was captivated by his mellifluous gangsta sound. She was smiling in his dark face.
The martini she sipped, the olive she licked, seducing him with her tung.
He was drinking straight shots of Jamaican Rum mixed with whiskey. He couldn’t wait to see her naked… After the show, he and her would blow through the London fog. He would bust her in his Phantom. She wasn’t privy to his secret ambitions of being interested in women, only so that he could kill them. And he knew who her secret lover was… After he sucked her, he would give her the ultimate ultimatum: put the gun to her head, ‘’Tell me where he lives… And I’ll allow you to live.’’
She would scream, then ultimately give up the tapes. Then he would kill her. Blood and heart matter in the Phantom’s guts.
She was grabbing on his nuts unawares… he was sensually rubbing on her butt. The devil in his eyes. She whispered in his ear, ‘’let’s slide.’’ Coincidentally he felt a double glance out the corner of his eye.
…
Of course it was her. Her who murdered so efficiently. She was with her date, He had no energy, no style, no presence about himself, no game, over his words he was fumbling. They were in London. Art show. He believed that she was a high class ho’.
Prostitute? ‘’Ha!’’ She mocked.
Cheap scoundrel, he was in a men’s warehouse suit. She adjusted his tie, and told him ‘’You’re so cute.’’ Boosting his ego and confidence before she dropped a pill in his swill.
Her apparel was Armani: silk blouse, skirt, heels , and lens. She was splendid, blinding, exquisite, her catwalk was pulling the attention of the other gentlemen.
This Weirdo’s price tag was a million! She would kill him and not fuck him! His smell was disgusting, his appearance indignant, ‘’ill!’’ he was unworthy of her presence. She would’ve killed him for free.
It was her beauty that made him want to poses her forever. She was seductive and attentive she hung on to every word of his sentences. In her presence, he was having a ‘’She loves me… She loves me not?’’ moment. Because she made him believe that she loved him. The way that she whispered in his ear, and the way that she held his hand, sent love waves through his heart.
He was a billionaire. With a temperament such as hers, he would turn her into a hundred millionaire overnight. Divorce his wife, then give the Prostitute with no name a substantial amount.
She passed him a glass of champagne. ‘’A toast to death!’’ She said while raising the glass. She stared into his eyes, wondering if his soul knew that it was about to die? On time, his eyes grew wide with terror and he began clutching his chest.
As she was whispering ‘’Femme Fatale’’, a familiar silhouette appeared in her peripheral sphere. Instinctively she glanced to the left then glanced again. It was him!.. the Chocolate Assassin romancing a gal.
She gripped her gun bag, and as the weirdo died, she glided in the direction of chocolate man. Such a heartbreak, he was charming the gal who in turn was gripping the Chocolate Assassin’s nuts. All of a sudden the band took a bow… The crowd stood clapping. She pushed through looking around. ‘’He’s gone!’’ She lost sight of The Chocolate Assassin. …
Sitting in his Phantom the Chocolate Assassin was laughing. The pretty lady made a rookie move she glanced twice than moved. He was on point so he played it cool. When the fans of the band stood, he grabbed the hand of his date and slid off smooth.
The pretty lady almost made him. ‘’Ha ha!’’ he laughed again. She was so alarming.
The brown skinned beauty whispered something in his ear that reminded him of how the pretty lady nibbled on his ear. The Chocolate Assassin opened his eyes and shot brown skinned in between the eyes. He sat back in the Phantom longing for the day when he made the pretty lady his…
This pain shit is real It hurt Trying to hide all of this deceit shit– and Snake shit That I feel Call home and they tell me I’m A real Nigga’s Hero “Real Nigga shit!” In here I’m just a number And it starts with a zero And I’m surrounded by all zeros Weirdos and negative Niggas I’m in Trenton with 130 years… How could I be a hero in here? Surrounded by all clowns Sometimes I wonder if I’m weird? Am I My partner said, “Nah, Nigga you just, Real” This real shit is real… I can’t fake it… this the real me I’m just me… They want me to post them and tell The world they real. “You can’t be foreal!” If you real it’ll show through your actions And you wouldn’t want the world to know They fake… forged identities They snakes… tell me you love me then Steal from me Put Ya self in my shoes And see through these bars from a real Niggas Point of view!! My lawyer told me, if I ain’t tell I would never be able to see the world From your point of view “I don’t know shit… Still!!!” Now swallow that real Nigga pill, I’m just me… I’ll let the real Nigga’s call it… Signing Out Real Nigga Hero
It means to lead everyone from the darkness into the light.
The chosen one is the light, the light that leads the way on the path that we shall follow.
The chosen one is the strength, strength for the weak, and the depth for the shallow.
The chosen one climbs the mountain that’s to steep for the rest to follow.
The chosen one is the voice that inspires guys to see… change, growth and change.
Family man, a man raised by no man. I remain the man dedicated to the man chosen to be a real N****’ hero.
Mustafa — Real N**** shit! I remember when you planted that seed. Trust me it grew. Lo and behold, who would’ve knew seeds would be planted in a garden named after you. Now the world know who was the chosen one, and we shall follow your light.
