Slient Hero

What will be said of me

When I am no more?

Will the world go on

As it has before?


When I am buried

Among the thousands of others,

Will I be forgotten

Like my fellow brothers?


On Christmas Eve,

Will the poor miss my presence?

Will they remember the times

That I gave them presents?


In the park,

Will the birds miss my bread?

Or will they jut go

To another instead?


Will I be remembered

At least one day of the year?

Of my life,

Will children want to hear?


On their poles,

Will flags be half raised?

Will many a person come

To rest a flower upon my grave?


Will a memorial be named

In honor of me,

For the people of the world

To come and see?




When I die,

Will people care

Of whether or not

I am there?


by Phillip McCullough Jr.

Hip-Hop Gospel

They cruise the blocks in the neighborhood
In their expensive and fancy rides
They spy their minions and their victims
With self-importance and bloated pride

They often don the slickest gear
And always attract the finest girls
They dupe themselves into believing
That they’re God’s gift to the world

They preach their own brand of word
With slick and refined manipulation of verses
They help fuel their extravagant lifestyles
By separating people from their senses and purses

If a cult of personality was a sin unto itself
These characters would be the main culprits
They summon the attention of their mindless flocks
By gesturing on their stages—their pulpits

A central part of their grand show
Is the gold around their necks and dials on their wrists
For the mic is but a lost footnote
Within the clutches of their “iced-out” fists

Where did society go wrong?
The truly wise now often wonder
When it’s hard to distinguish between rapper and preacher
You know the values of men have gone asunder



by Phillip McCullough Jr.