Tupac Shakur: The Family Tree A Tragedy Poetic Note

In the realm of time's tender embrace,

March fifteenth, eighteen ninety-three,

A soul was birthed, Reverend Walter Larry Williams,

His existence, a chapter in history's decree.

His mother, Sarah Burton, gentle and meek,

In eighteen fifty-three, her spirit arose,

Yet August's tenth, nineteen twenty-seven,

Saw her departure, where her essence chose to repose.

A union formed, a dance of hearts entwined,

With Rosa Lee, known as Lena, he wed,

March thirty-first, nineteen hundred one,

Her presence a muse, a love that spread.

From their union, seeds of life were sown,

Lafayette, my father, a beam of light,

And Walter Jr., his kin, by blood entwined,

Both bearing burdens, shadows veiling their sight.

Within their souls, a darkness brewed,

Alcohol's poison consumed their veins,

Inflicting pain on kin and wives alike,

In their hands, misery's perpetual reins.

Alice Faye, dear daughter of Walter's embrace,

Together we stood, amid echoes of distress,

Our mothers' cries haunting the night,

From the Williams tree, we sought solace, no less.

She fled at tender age, to New York's embrace,

Seeking refuge, a respite from the storm,

Whilst my mother, too, found her flight,

Divorcing my father, leaving chaos to deform.

In his care, my sister and I remained,

As the world we knew crumbled apart,

Yet she, too, sought an escape, a path her own,

Leaving me alone, with a wounded heart.

Amidst the toxic fumes that poisoned my days,

I sought refuge, a refuge afar,

In the Army's embrace, I found my solace,

Amidst Vietnam's chaos, beneath its nightmarish star.

Alice Faye, mother of Tupac's fame,

Bore the weight of life's relentless strife,

Her journey intertwined with Black Panthers' grace,

Yet addiction's tendrils gripped her, stealing her life.

To Baltimore's embrace she sought her way,

Accompanied by Tupac, her guiding light,

Dependent on welfare, her refuge from the fray,

In the arms of Aunt Sharon, their days took flight.

I returned from the battlefield's grim grip,

From Vietnam's horrors, my spirit scarred,

In music's cradle, I found my salvation,

Graduated, dreams soaring, like a lark.

Tupac, a prodigy, an artist renowned,

Yet his gangsta façade, as whispered by kin,

A mask to sell records, to capture the crowd,

In the shadow of fame, the truth lay thin.

As we celebrate his life, his legacy strong,

Idolized, revered, his spirit alive,

Let us not forget the intricate threads,

The family's tapestry, where destinies derive.

Reflecting upon my life's winding path,

And the lineage that shaped my soul's art,

I ponder the tragedy, the ancestral woes,

That sprouted from Walter Sr.'s deceitful heart.

From the pulpit he preached, his voice resounding,

Beside my grandmother, a love's charade,

In one pew, his mistress, their secret abounding,

A quartet of anguish, their symphony played.

In response, a melody stirs within my core,

A harmonious rage, a bitter refrain,

For Ralph Waldo's words echo in my ears,

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," they maintain.