"Pope of Gangland"

I wrote this for a cipher, to shut down one of my friends, a based it off of the last line of this poem he asked people to cipher off of.

Bullets sound like bells in the distance.
Pope of Gangland ringing out cat calls like cats called to work: Pimp.
Tripping on too many years of bad mistakes, limping, like bones being brailed against the concrete canvas where he paints crack rocks and cheap blow jobs.
But $25 isn't enough to get you away from here.
7 years old, his mother was beat to death by his step-father.
Hear the whip crack like black backs calling back cat calls from their mothers lips.
8 years old, his brother, the kid that he shared candy with, got shot up on the block.
Hear the whip crack like black backs calling back cat calls for their mothers lips.
9 years old, his sister gets raped before his eyes.
Hear the whip crack!!!
12 years old, step-father leaves him dangling for the warmth of deaths untimely hug.
Hear the whip crack!!!
13 years old, he got a pair of Nike's.
Those "Forest Gump" kind of shoes.
Those "run from your problems" kind of kicks.
Those "get me out of here now so I don't have to cradle in corners to the sound of whips," kind of Nike's.
He's been running ever since.
Pushing his feet so hard into the ground a little boy in China felt the bass in his pain.
The quiver in his heart beat.
Y'all...he's been running for years now.
Trading women for money, cuz problems seem to stick to the corner down the street when you can afford material things that you can't help but to smile when you see 'em.
And you know what, he feels it.
Deep down in his past.
He knows it ain't right.
But when you have a father figure that told you laughing is for rich folk, how can you not want pockets as deep as the ocean blue.
So he uses the fore fathers to plaster his six figure bank accounts across the city.
Some call him a pimp, some call him a hustler, others a fiend...but I know he's a lot less than that.
He's someone in pain.
Someone who's future smells like dirty girls, nicotine, and jail cells.
Someone who calls life Hell.
And who calls Hell a place not to far away from the bed he cries on.
A brimmed hat and gold can only go so far when your royalty lies in the dusty footprints of a step-father who's shoes are too small to fill.
He's still that 13 year old.
He is still running.
And believe me, he isn't stopping any time soon.
He's gonna run till this concrete breaks.
Till you feel it.
He has a story that is too bold to tell.
It doesn't get told often.
And it gets cried over even less.
He pumps this city like water, trying to get everything he needs from it to survive.
You call him a pimp, I call him dead inside.
Pull back the stereotyped black skin and you will see a boy just short of puberty, hoping his Hoes will get beat half to death by a customer one day just so he can see his mothers face again.
You will see a little boy trying to trade bullet shells with others, hoping they'll give him pop rocks, so he can feel the love from his brother.
You might just catch a glimpse of the day he died inside, and know why he hands out hoes, hoping they'll get sexually assaulted so his sister doesn't have to be the only one in that kind of pain.
You'll see all the gunfights amounting to the time he was left on the kitchen floor bleeding to death.
He's just trying to go back to when he was a kid.
At least he could half-a*s a smile back then.
He stands on the corners of your city every damn day.
Listening as bullets, that sound like bells, announce another day in the distance.
As this pope of the Gangland's calls cat calls like cats called to work: he is a pimp.
Who's limp comes from a lot of stupid misery.
And 24 years worth of running too fast.
Using the flickering street lights like camera flashes, he just wants to capture the moment he realizes it's OK to smile again.
And when he does, I hope someone will be there to hug him.
All I have to say, is looks, they're great sometimes, others...they can be a real b***h to handle.
But no matter what, they CAN and WILL be deceiving.
So before you mark him as just another pimp, read the book all the way through, let his words fill you like music till you dance with his dead.
And understand, that you should never, ever, judge a book by his medallioned, limping, slick talking, fast money transactioned, home made cover.