All I spoke was peace,
but no one understood.
To them, I was a hoodlum.
But to myself, a thug.
Not a smoker, not a criminal, but someone who suffers.
Someone who has gone through struggle,
and lives day by day with nothing for them.

I never knew it would change history,
The history of music.
The clash between two brothers, East, West, Wallace and Shakur.
Brothers of love, family, and music.
That is what I lived for, we both lived for.

I was shot in the hand, which I would hold my microphone,
I was shot in the hip, which I would dance to the words poured from my soul,
And I was shot in the lung, which I would breathe my melodies.
But now, blood.

Me against the world, kind of ironic.
My album seemed to tell it all.
I would preach to my listeners, my lovers, my fans,
as my death was the day my career began.