My Grandpa carried me out the car when I was sick

My Grandpa Carried Me Out the Car When I Was Sick

By: Robert Jordan

I think about that day sometimes,
how I was so small in his arms,
like the world was too much for me to carry.
The sun was high,
too bright for how heavy everything felt.
I was sick, body weak,
but him, he opened that door,
reached in, pulled me out,
and there was no hesitation,
no second thought,
like it was nothing, like he was born to do it.
And I, I just let him.

I think about that now,
when I’m walking this road,
when I feel too heavy for my own skin.
I wish someone would open the door,
reach in, and pull me out.
But there’s no one.
No arms strong enough,
no steady hand to guide me through the mess I’ve made.
It’s just me,
and I’m failing.

I show up late to school,
and I hate that the only thing people remember about me is the time I missed.
I wish that wasn’t all they saw.
I wish they saw the part of me
still trying to figure out life,
still trying to piece myself back together.
I’m still processing,
still breaking,
still reaching for something
I can’t even name.
I can’t even tell you what’s wrong,
I just know it’s there,
sitting heavy in my chest.

I know my dad’s watching,
hoping I’ll pull it together,
hoping I’ll get it right this time.
And maybe he’s right.
Maybe I should.
But I’m still caught between being the son he wants,
and the version of myself that’s still lost.
I’m still figuring this out.

Summer left,
and with it, my clarity,
my hope,
my belief that things could be different.
Now I’m here,
stuck in the wreckage,
trying to rebuild with hands too shaky to hold the pieces.
Trying to find the rhythm in the chaos,
but it feels like every step I take
pushes me further away from what I thought I’d be.

And it’s not just regret.
It’s not just the failure I see when I look in the mirror,
it’s the weight of not knowing if I’ll ever get it right.
It’s the fear of disappointing them,
of never being the person they hope for.
And I think about Grandpa,
how he carried me without a second thought,
how he made it look so easy,
like there was nothing in the world
that could stop him from helping me.

But now,
now it’s just me.
I don’t have anyone to pull me out,
to carry me when my legs give out.
And I’m scared,
scared that I won’t be enough,
scared that I’ll keep falling,
and no one will be there to catch me.

But still, I keep moving.
Not because I’m strong,
but because stopping means I’ve given up,
and I’m scared of what that would mean.
I keep walking,
even when it feels like I’m dragging the world behind me.
Even when my chest is heavy,
and the weight of everything presses on me like it’s all my fault.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be enough.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get this right.
But I think about Grandpa,
how he carried me when I couldn’t even stand,
and I try to believe that there’s a strength in me,
a strength I haven’t found yet.
A strength Grandpa saw when he pulled me from that car,
and a strength my dad still believes in,
even when I can’t see it myself.

Because if Grandpa could carry me,
and if Dad still expects me to rise,
then maybe…
I can carry myself, even when I’m on the verge of falling off that cliff.

Trust

Trust.
A fragile yet powerful word, ain’t it?
A thread spun so delicately
Yet it snaps like a twig under the weight of betrayal.
You see, I’ve learned too many times
That trust is not a gift but a gamble
And some people
They gamble it like they’ve got nothing to lose.

I’ve been there.
Standing in the wreckage of what I thought was solid ground
Only to feel it crumble beneath me
Because someone I let in
Someone I believed in
Decided to test the strength of my heart
And found it too forgiving, too soft.

They always say sorry after, don’t they.
As if sorry can glue the pieces back together
As if sorry can erase the memory
Of the knife they twisted in my back.
But here’s the truth
Sorry is just a bandage on a bullet wound
And trust doesn’t heal the same way skin does.

I take trust seriously.
It’s not a toy.
It’s not something you borrow for a moment
And return when you’re done breaking it.
It’s a part of me
My heart, my soul, my belief in you.
And when you shatter it
You don’t just lose my trust.
You lose the part of me that saw you as safe.

I’ve had experiences, most definitely.
People who smiled with their mouths
While their hands carried daggers
People who spoke promises so sweet
I thought they could only be true.
But lies have a way of tasting like honey
Until they turn bitter in the back of your throat.

When someone breaks my trust
They don’t get the same version of me again.
They don’t get the warmth, the openness
The part of me that believed in their goodness.
They get a wall
A fortress built brick by brick
With every lie, every betrayal, every moment I doubted myself
Because I trusted someone who didn’t deserve it.

And the thing about walls
They don’t come down easily.
You can apologize.
You can cry.
You can beg me to let you in
But I won’t.
Not like before.
Not when I’ve already seen
What you’re capable of.

Trust is sacred to me.
It’s the foundation of every bond
The root of every connection.
When you break it
You’re not just breaking a promise
You’re breaking the belief that I mattered to you
That I was worth your honesty
That I was worth your care.

It’s not revenge.
It’s not bitterness.
It’s self-preservation.
Because once I’ve been burned
I won’t touch the flame again.
I won’t hand you the matches
And hope this time you’ll be careful.

And don’t get me wrong
I’ll forgive you, in time.
But forgiveness isn’t a key to the door you locked behind you.
It’s just my way of letting go
So I can move forward without the weight of your betrayal
Dragging me down.
But you
You’ll stay on the other side of that door
Looking in, wondering why the warmth is gone
Why my smile doesn’t reach my eyes anymore
Why you don’t hear my laughter
The way you used to.

You see, trust isn’t just about you and me.
It’s about the scars I carry from the people before you
The ones who taught me that love, friendship, and loyalty
Are not always as they seem.
It’s about the nights I spent awake
Replaying the moments where I should’ve known better
Where I should’ve been smarter.
It’s about me now
Protecting the last bits of trust I have left
Saving them for someone who won’t see them as a game.

So if you ask why it’s not the same anymore
Why I don’t laugh like I used to
Why the light in my eyes seems dimmer
Just know
Trust was never meant to be taken lightly
And once you’ve broken it
There’s no going back to what was.

You can have my forgiveness
But you’ll never have me the same way again.

Poetic axons

Poetic Axons

My mind is a constellation
a thousand little stars
burning questions, fragments of wonder
an orchestra of scattered light
and the silence in between.

I see the world through stained-glass patterns
each moment a prism
light refracting into lessons I’ve come to know
before the others have.
I read the rhythm of wind against brick walls
the language of shadows dancing across sidewalks
and I listen to the whispers in the cracks
because every crack has a story.

Some call it thinking differently
but I think it’s just seeing from angles
the horizon never showed them.
While others search for answers in footprints
I find meaning in the spaces left behind
where no one else thought to look.
I’ve learned that wisdom isn’t always loud.
It isn’t always in the fire or the shouting winds.
Sometimes wisdom is stillness
and I have become familiar with stillness.

The trees taught me patience
how roots dig deep
while leaves sway in surrender.
And family, the ancient kind of love
exists in the smallest things
a shared glance at a table
the sound of laughter reaching the other room
the shared knowledge of a knowing sigh
when words feel too heavy to speak.
They are my home, my gravity
the quiet pieces of my life that hold me here
that remind me I am tethered to the soil
even when I soar.

But I have walked my own paths
a different kind of rhythm in my bones
a melody composed not by uniformity
but by strange notes
unexpected chords
and the kind of words that feel like rain.

Every mistake is a verse
every heartbreak is a stanza
every moment of joy, a chorus
and I have learned that life is poetry in motion
never linear
never straightforward
but always a lesson
always an invitation to learn the next verse.

I’ve learned that life doesn’t judge your choices
it simply offers experience
a gift in every encounter
and my neurons have become like little ink pens
writing the lessons
writing the stories
writing the dance between joy and fear
between grief and hope.

I am me
not because it’s the easiest choice
but because every path I’ve walked has taught me that truth has weight
and I trust that even in uncertainty it will carry me forward.

I used to think peace was somewhere out there
some destination
but peace isn’t a point you arrive at.
It’s the slow way your body learns to trust the wind
the way your soul learns to find quiet in motion
in imperfection, in surrender.

The truth is you don’t fight your way through the storms.
You learn to float with them.
You learn to listen to their song
to let their rhythm shape you
instead of breaking you.

So here’s my advice
don’t wait for the winds to stop.
Learn to dance with them.
Because they will always be moving
but so will you.

Let your steps be deliberate
but let them come from the heart
the storms shape the trees and the stars alike
both beautiful in their bending
both resilient in their reaching.

And you are more like the wind than you think
stronger, freer, capable of reshaping the sky.

note from author: this poem is a little different from the rest, but I figured I’d experiment a bit, it speaks on how I see the world through my eyes and how my mind is wired (hence the word axon in the title) I hope yo guys enjoy!

Post nut clarity (SW)

Post Nut Clarity

Have You ever have those moments?
Where everything feels sharp after the fog lifts from your covers?
Where the veil drops, and you see it for what it really is?
I call it Post Nut Clarity but not how you think.
It’s about life, relationships, patterns, and choices.
It’s about looking at yourself in the mirror
and finally seeing the reflection you ignored for too long.

It’s that moment when you step back
clear-headed
and you ask yourself why did I let myself stay there?
Why did I accept less?
Why did I ignore red flags
that were waving in front of my face like they were trying to get my attention
during rush hour?

Life is a teacher, man.
It teaches through scars, through mistakes, through lessons you didn’t want to learn.
You gotta sit in class with your own pain sometimes
and learn the hard way.
Some things you can’t learn from a book.
Some things you can’t learn from advice.
You gotta live it, walk through it, and come out the other side.

I used to think peace was something you find.
Like a destination.
Like something you stumble upon
when you least expect it.
But peace isn’t a place.
Peace is a mindset.
It’s a choice you make every single day
even when the waves are crashing
even when the voices get loud.

I’ve learned that peace doesn’t mean everything is perfect.
It doesn’t mean every wound is healed.
It just means you’re strong enough to live anyway.
You’re strong enough to let go of what you can’t control
and trust yourself with what you can.

Growth feels ugly sometimes.
It’s uncomfortable as hell.
It feels like peeling back skin, layer by layer,
and exposing yourself to the cold air
until you’re raw and exposed
but eventually, you heal.
You grow stronger.
You learn who you really are.

And that’s the lesson, isn’t it?
Life is the best teacher.
It doesn’t give you a syllabus.
It doesn’t warn you when the test is coming.
But you walk through those experiences
and you come out the other side wiser.
You learn that the relationships you thought broke you
actually built you.
You learn that the mistakes you ran from
were the exact things that taught you how to stand tall.

I’ve come to understand now
I can’t control everything.
I can’t rewrite my story.
But I can own it.
I can take the pain, the growth, the lessons
and use them as fuel to become a better me.
stop chasing peace.
Stop waiting for clarity to knock.
Clarity comes when you stand still,
when you listen,
when you make peace with chaos
instead of fighting it.
The key to a full life isn’t control, it’s surrender.
Not surrender in defeat,
but surrender in understanding,
in trust,
in knowing that you are always enough,
even when you don’t have all the answers.

Life isn’t about being perfect.
It’s about learning the art of listening to your heart
and trusting it even when it feels broken.

And that is enough.

To where it’s embedded in you forever.

One too many

One too many

One too many nights under pale, flickering streetlights,
the cold wind carries the whispers of names.
Names that were stolen, names that were silenced,
their lives ripped away without trial, without reason.

One too many nights that end with sirens,
the flash of blue and red,
the weight of boots on concrete.
We’ve heard the cries. We’ve felt the pain.
But they’ve kept counting—
one name, then another, then another.

One too many: Trayvon Martin.
Seventeen years old. A hood, a look, a heartbeat.
He should have grown into the man he was meant to be.
Instead, his name was added to the list.

One too many: Michael Brown.
Hands up, don’t shoot.
But the gunshot came anyway.
Ferguson streets burned with the weight of history,
the weight of why?
Why a young Black man with dreams becomes a hashtag
instead of a father, a teacher, a son.

One too many: George Floyd.
I can hear his voice still.

“I can’t breathe.”
The weight of a knee on his neck,
eight minutes and forty-six seconds of a world watching,
but doing nothing.
“He was a criminal.”

And yet why should the ignorant folks speak?
Focus up. The names keep coming.
Eric Garner, Freddie Gray, Tamir Rice,
Sandra Bland, Ahmaud Arbery, Philando Castile.
They all felt the cold hands of injustice,
the same cold hands we know too well,
hands of systems built on oppression.

One too many moments. This isn’t new.
It’s written into the fabric of America,
in the chains, in the lynchings,
in the fires lit to destroy freedom dreams.

One too many: Emmett Till.
Fourteen years old.
Beaten, dragged, his body discarded like a broken toy
after being accused of a crime that never existed.

One too many broken promises.
The promise of freedom, the promise of justice,
the promise of equality.
All words that fade when weighed against centuries
of oppression, history written by the hands
of slave owners and colonizers.

One too many marches.
Selma, 1965.
The bridge, the beatings, the blood.
The cries of freedom ringing louder than the boots
that met protesters on that bridge.
How many were beaten down for a single step toward equality?

But here’s the thing.
These aren’t just history lessons.
They are our families, our lives,
our ancestors buried beneath the shadows of systemic hate.
They are mothers, fathers, children,
fighting to breathe under the weight of chains
that refuse to rust, refuse to die.

One too many names.
One too many injustices.
One too many nights that ended in mourning.
And still, they expect us to be silent.

But silence is not survival anymore.
Our voices rise.
They carry the weight of generations.
They carry the weight of lives stolen, histories erased, promises broken.

One too many.

How many bodies are enough?
How many cries will it take before this stops?

And yet, we are here.
We are still here.
We remember. We stand.

But here’s the ache—
I can’t help but wonder if they hear us.
If the names that we cry out reach the heavens.
If they hear our pain, our demands,
or if they, too, are lost in the same echo.

We are not just angry; we are tired.
Tired of fighting battles that should have ended decades ago.
Tired of watching the clock as if time will bend itself
to make our lives less fragile, less expendable.

But here’s what we’ll do:
we’ll cry louder.
We’ll cry until the earth shakes and the stars can hear.
We’ll cry until the echoes fall into the hearts of the ones who need to hear.

Because even if they try to silence us,
we will not go away.

Our voices will be heard.
Our stories will live.
And when the wind blows through the trees,
it’ll carry their names.

Into the marrow of history.
Into the bones of the earth.
Into the whispers of time itself.

Always.

So how did you feel?

So how did you feel?

anguish
/ˈaNGɡwiSH/
severe mental or physical pain or suffering.

How did you feel? Not that I care or worry about you, as a matter of fact, I’m thriving and flourishing without you
but I just want to ask, how did you feel?

How did you feel, when you felt big and bad like the great big wolf
that feeds on the emotion sad
yet lacking the qualities of a mother, instead, lost and mad?

How did you feel?
When you used words of destruction
to kill a relationship that was once trusted
a relationship a young boy tried to replenish
with pieces of his soul.
Instead fell short, and now he’s trying to refill his bowl.

But did you ever notice?
Notice that the roof which we resided in
that once thrived with life
where love was flapping around with its wings so beautiful

Turned cold.

Wings now shrunken to dust.
With love now locked away, never to be shown towards you again.
And now the inside of that roof is a dark, cold, empty shell
of spiritual warfare and a perpetuating feeling of hatred
that’s induced throughout.

How did you feel, watching my little sister step into shoes
she should never have been forced to wear?
She was a child, but you made her grow up too fast
turning innocence into responsibility
her light dimmed under the weight of your absence.

And my little brother
he barely had a chance to know what love could be.
He’s too young to even put words to the scars you left
but they’re there, etched in his silence
in the way he looks for reassurance where you failed to give it.
He shouldn’t have to question love
but thanks to you, he does.

Do you even think about them?
About the tears you never wiped away
the laughter you silenced
the trust you shattered before they could even understand what it meant?

How did you feel when the warmth in our house froze?
When the walls turned into silent witnesses to your destruction
and we stopped looking at you with love
only indifference
only pain?

You built this.
Brick by brick, word by word
you tore apart what was once whole
and for what?
To feel powerful? To prove something?

But here’s the truth
you proved nothing but how empty you are.
And as much as you tried to break us
you failed.
We’re stronger now. not because of you
but in spite of you.

So how do you feel now?
Knowing that your name holds no weight here
that your place in our hearts
isn’t even a memory worth keeping?

I’ll tell you how I feel.

I feel nothing for you.

And I hope you live the rest of your days alone.
I hope every door remains closed when you knock
every voice stays silent when you call out
and every reflection in every mirror shows a face
that will never recognize love again.

I hope the nights are cold and endless
that every moment is a reminder of what you lost
but you’ll never admit it
because to admit it would be to face the reality
of how broken you truly are.

I hope you rot there
in the dark
in your regret
in your failure.

Because you don’t deserve redemption
you don’t deserve peace
you don’t deserve a second chance.

And that silence you feel now
that’s what you’ve earned.

  And here’s the thing I finally see about you
something I couldn’t put into words before.

You see yourself as untouchable
a queen in your own throne of mirrors
always needing to shine
always demanding we look at you and admire the reflection you created.

You lived for the power of control
the illusion that your words could twist and mold us into whatever fit your narrative.

You prided yourself on strength
but strength came in only one form for you:

The power to destroy
to manipulate
to reshape memories
to make us question ourselves
but only because you couldn’t face your own emptiness.

It took years to figure it out but here it is:
you ran from your brokenness by building walls
by twisting affection into currency
by making sure our worth was always a game of conditions
always based on your rules
always dangling just out of reach
because if we stayed chasing
we’d never stop feeling the void you forced upon us.

And yet, despite your game
I see you for what you are now.

A broken reflection of someone trying to convince themselves of their greatness
a stranger incapable of self-awareness
chained to your need to be adored but unable to find peace
always looking in the mirror and asking, "Why can’t they see me?"

And now I know:

You’ve always been lost
but you made sure we were too.

I wish I could feel sorry for you
but I don’t.

Not anymore.

And yet… here’s the part that stings.

You were our mother.

Or at least you were supposed to be.

But all you ever gave us was a lesson in survival
in building walls to weather storms
in learning to live without the warmth you should have given. Instead proven to by our father he was the one who wanted us to keep striving.

And that’s the cruelest truth of all—

You could have changed it.

You could have chosen love
but you chose yourself instead.

Now that choice is your legacy.

Now that emptiness is your only inheritance.

And in the end, isn’t that fitting?

Because love was never yours to hold
and you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to convince yourself it was.

But we see through the lies.
We see through the mirrors.

And we’ll keep walking
without you.

Forever.

Bullets and flesh

Bullets and flesh

Bullets and flesh,
the meeting is violent, sudden,
a brutal kiss that no one saw coming,
and I, stuck watching,
lost in the flash of impact,
the air cracking,
a scream cut off by the whisper
of a bullet too close to my ear.

It’s a sound that doesn’t just vanish;
it lingers, claws deep,
etching itself into my mind
like a parasite digging in,
like a wound that won't close,
turning silence into a graveyard
where memories of this moment live.
Every time I close my eyes,
it plays again,
the sound of life lost,
a door slamming shut.

One second, he was whole,
a person just breathing, walking,
a heartbeat moving through the cold.
I don’t know his name, his story—
I don’t know if someone loved him,
if someone waited for him to come home.
But in that second, none of that mattered;
he was just a body breaking open,
flesh splitting like paper,
as if life had no more room for him.

And then time cracked,
split down the middle,
and he was on the ground,
a tangle of limbs on concrete,
falling like he was finally giving up,
like the street was calling him home,
like there was no reason left to fight.

Blood came fast, shocking,
red spilling out like paint on stone,
too vivid for this dark night,
too much for the world to bear.
And for a moment, it felt like even the ground
hesitated, like the earth beneath him
didn't want to touch what was left.
He was just a person,
now a broken thing,
a fading echo of what once was.

People screamed, turned away,
but I was still, rooted,
eyes locked on his fading form,
on the way his chest stilled,
on the silence settling over him,
a silence that swallowed his last breath
and mine.

The bullet holes were small, like secrets,
but they told a story loud enough
for all of us to hear,
a final truth seeping out of his skin,
splattered on the street like a prayer
no one was there to answer.
The world held its breath,
but I couldn’t.
I couldn’t stop looking,
couldn’t stop feeling
the weight of it all press down on me,
gripping my chest like a vice.

I felt the weight of him there,
his body emptied of life,
of the small and precious things
we think we’re owed,
of the dreams he carried slipping away,
leaving nothing but stillness,
leaving nothing but the smell of iron
and rain-soaked concrete.
The sound of his fall,
of his body surrendering,
was loud and sharp,
but the silence that followed
was colder than anything I’ve known.
It wrapped around me like a blanket,
but it wasn’t warm,
it was suffocating.

And still, that sound,
that crack, that shattering,
it’s there, replaying in my head,
like a broken record spinning,
etching itself deeper each time,
refusing to fade,
making sure I carry it with me
like a scar that never heals.
It’s the thing I hear when I’m alone,
when everything else falls away,
and I can’t escape it,
can’t escape what I saw.

The worst part?
Every loud sound after that—
a door slamming,
a car backfiring,
a distant shout—
they all feel like echoes,
familiar cracks that slice through me,
sharp and too close.
I freeze, heart racing,
trapped in the fear of it all
coming back in an instant,
in the silence that follows
like a threat.
I am always waiting for it,
waiting for the next shot,
the next crack in the air,
the next person to fall.

There are days when I can’t breathe,
when the fear creeps up my spine
like it’s a part of me now,
like it’s in the air I breathe,
the food I eat,
the moments between the seconds
when I’m not looking.
It’s in the cracks of everyday sounds—
the rumble of tires on the road,
the sharp sound of footsteps in the hallway,
the buzz of a phone vibrating on the table.
Each one of them,
just a reminder of what’s still in me,
what’s still hanging in the air
from that moment.

I don’t know how to explain it,
but I feel cold.
Cold all the time,
like the world’s warmth has slipped away,
like I’m standing in the snow
and I can’t remember how to get inside.
People move around me,
but I don’t feel them,
don’t feel their words,
don’t feel anything anymore
except the cold that wraps around my chest.
I try to reach for warmth,
but it slips through my hands
like smoke.

The worst part is the quiet after,
the numbness that settles in deep,
where everything feels distant,
like I’m watching my own life from a far-off place,
a place where things don’t matter,
where things just… happen.
The crowd is gone,
the street is quiet,
and the rain has come,
washing away the blood.
But nothing stays.
Nothing stays but the cold.
The emptiness in my chest,
the echo of a life lost
that I never knew,
never touched,
and will never forget.

The world moves on,
but I don’t.
I’m just here.
Frozen in the cold.
Stuck in the silence.
Stuck in the sound.

Outcast

Outcast (written work)
by Robert Jordan

Every day I live my life as a Black man who is doubted and hated by his own kind. Not from what we deem pigs or the white folk. I’d say they’re more supportive, but I fear for my kind.

I was raised in a proper way, so I tend to think in different ways. Catching strays from my own kind as if I ain’t the same nigga they are. We use that word as a referral to each other and to identify what we were deemed to be — not Black, but a “nigga.” And then when they find out you have a present father, it’s, “Damn, nigga, you got a pops?” I mean, you get my point now.

A dark spirit of corruption has washed over the Black community, which normalized the pursuit of the stereotypical Black man: a gangsta brotha with no pops but lives with his mom, who says “live on” to his bros who lost their lives to this lifestyle of spraying Uzis and Glocks with switches. A lifestyle that leaves monsoons of tears dropped by grieving families and family members. Now, the reputation of us Black folk is an eternal funeral.

Put that in perspective?

I ain’t done.

You see, we let things get put onto us as people that we shouldn’t settle for. “The hood” is normal for us, being broke is normal for us, having three babymamas you left with your kids, and then you going to the store to “grab the milk” is normal for us. Being the face of poverty is normal for us; it ain’t nothing new. Being perceived as “thugs” who do and sell drugs ain’t out the ordinary.

But when a brotha gets his diamond rings and gold chains, it’s out of the picture. See, as soon as you see that, you immediately think that illegal shit’s going on.

When a brotha has his eyes on success and tries to get away from the stereotype, he becomes the “whitewashed” fool. Deemed soft and not a part of a community suffering from its own people. A breeding ground for contradiction and narcissism. A “community” that hates to see you not be “Black.”

So when that “whitewashed fool” becomes successful, he's all of a sudden an outcast instead of a hero, a loser that’s weak instead of powerful. An example of what a Black man should be is instead perceived as what a Black man shouldn’t be. A “fake” individual instead of a strong-hearted person.

I say we hate each other more than we love each other. We kill our own and it’s “he had it coming,” but when the popo comes and ends one of us, it’s “Oh yeah, them pigs have it coming.” A community that owns the killing of themselves but hates when others invade the territory they put down. We hate the murder of our people by law enforcement, but settle with the murder of our people by the hood enforcement.

It’s a pestilence of contradiction, a disease of narcissism, a flu of hatred, a foreseen end of us that others are waiting on. So now the world sees us as only stereotypes.

“Why can’t Black men be good dads?”
“Why do them niggers sag their pants?”
“Why do women clutch their purse every time a Black man comes by?”
“Johnny, let’s leave before they get here.”

We fight and fight for rights, but at the end of the day, I don’t see any changes, just the sight. We want to be treated as equal but show ignorance. “Twerking at the red light, dancing at the red light,” and you wonder why people see you as ghetto. “Ay, I just came up on this bread,” but you did it in a sleazy way. Yelling across the street, “Waddup my nigga,” and wonder why the white folk don’t take you seriously and see you as a joke.

It’s time for us as a people to carry ourselves like we have screws in our heads and not wanting each other dead. When we see another one of us trying to ride that bus, the bus to success, hop on and cheer them on. Maybe you can learn a thing or two and start your own little crew.

It’s time to show the world that Black men can be good dads, not just by providing but by being present, by showing up every day, by being steady. We’ve got to break free from the myth that a “real man” only lives fast and dies young. A real man raises his sons and daughters with love, guides them with wisdom, and gives them something solid to lean on.

What if we all worked together to become that so-called “whitewashed fool”? Not to fit in, but to rise above. To be men who build, not destroy. To be fathers who stick around, to be brothers and sisters who push each other toward success, not just survival.

Imagine a community where it’s normal to be ambitious, where dreams aren’t laughed at but encouraged, where getting educated, building a family, and living a good life are what we expect of each other. We’d be a force the world couldn’t ignore, united not by the stereotypes that hold us down but by a standard of greatness that lifts us up.

It’s time to redefine what it means to be a Black man or woman. To make dignity, not destruction, the legacy we leave behind. To make love, not loss, our inheritance. It’s time to live not just for ourselves but for each other, proving that there’s nothing soft about raising each other up.

We can be heroes, not outcasts. Leaders, not shadows. Together, we can change the story.

It’s time for us to rewrite the script, to let go of what’s holding us back and prove that success, respect, and unity aren’t “whitewashed” — they’re powerful. Imagine a community where we uplift each other, where dreams of success aren’t something to mock but something to celebrate. Imagine if we could turn the “whitewashed fool” into a symbol of strength, someone who breaks free from stereotypes, who defies expectations, who shows that being Black and successful isn’t a contradiction — it’s the future.

Let’s move together, unafraid to break cycles, unafraid to redefine what it means to be Black. Let’s make ambition our anthem, make unity our armor, and make respect our legacy. We have the power to rise above, to build a community where strength is measured by how we lift each other up and where we cheer each other on as we chase something greater.

We can be more than what they expect. We can stand as proof that change is real and that when we’re united, nothing can hold us down. It’s time to live not just for ourselves but for each other. Let’s be the generation that proves we’re more than a label, more than a statistic, let’s show the world what it really means to be Black, proud, and unstoppable.

Pawpaw

Pawpaw (SW)

I’ll tell you a couple things.
I’m a young man,
And number two, love will always be the most vulnerable position you will ever be in.
So you have to live with love that’s like a loose screw,
So when someone leaves, it’ll not be as painful.

April 21st, 2008 is when I came into this world,
And not only did I feel the love from my father,
But also from the original, Robert Duane Jordan.
But I only know him as pawpaw.
A love I felt since birth, knee-high.
His laugh that booms and fills your soul with an angelic happiness,
6’3, and when I was a kid, that was gigantic.
As if he was also a protector, immortal.
Nothing would ever hurt him, in my eyes he was the archangel Michael.
But in reality, he was just my grandpa.
Myself, who was just 9 years old at the time,
Learned what love was, what love felt like, what love looked like.
My strength, which was so jut out I felt like He-Man.
A happiness that felt like it would never end,
That made my soul levitate.

But… on May 24, 2015, I was caught on lower ground,
Because he left earth to go back home,
Amongst the beautiful sun right next to God,
And I was struck by tears.
And yet I was still ambushed by nightmares,
See, I have a very vibrant and creative mind,
And at times it would create these realities and false hopes.
That maybe it was all a dream,
That maybe he was still here,
That maybe I’ll wake up and it’ll be over.
And these alternate universes keep playing over again,
And again, and again.
And I’m tired of playing the creator because I have to come to terms
And accept that my grandpa ain’t ever coming back.

And that’s the cost of love,
The cost of life.
Caring for someone so much that you can’t imagine
Living the rest of your childhood,
The rest of your life without them.
Standing next to him at his funeral,
With a kiss on his forehead
In hopes that it holds magic on bringing him back.
But that’s not real.

And I know that I said “love loosely”
So when it goes,
It won’t leave so painfully.

But pain and memories are all I have left of him,
So I want to hold onto them as long as possible.

So now, I’m left with the echo of his laugh,
The sound still reverberates in my chest,
A warmth I’ll never feel again.
Like holding onto the last bit of sunlight before it sinks,
Holding onto a love that shaped me, made me,
And yet left me shattered.

You see, they tell you to move on.
They say time heals, but time just numbs.
The space he left? It doesn’t shrink,
I just learn to stretch myself around it.
Learn to breathe with lungs full of memories,
Learn to walk in a world that feels colder, emptier.

I said love loosely so it doesn’t hurt,
But I think the real truth is
You can’t love halfway.
Even when you think you’ve got your guard up,
That screw’s always loose enough to twist back tight,
Always loose enough to let someone crawl into your soul,
Until they own a piece of you.

My pawpaw? He’s still got that piece.
And I’m not asking for it back.
I’ll live with the ache,
Because that ache is all I have left.
And maybe that’s what love is,
The pieces that linger after they’re gone,
The tears, the smiles, the way they change you,
And stay with you, forever etched in the corners of your heart.

So maybe I lied,
Maybe I don’t want to love loosely after all,
Because if love is the cost,
Then I’m willing to pay every single time.

I can’t say the m word (SW)

I Can’t Say the M Word (SW)

In the midst of a happy family, there lays corruption beneath.
You see, growing up I only had one parent in mind.
Kids thought it was weird that I talked about my father the way I did,
So highly.
Teachers thought I was corrupted because when they would give me that
“Talk about your parents” activity, I would only admire and speak on my fatherly figure.
I remember when I gave that paper to my teacher and heard a,
“What the hell.”

Now, look..
That doesn’t mean I didn’t speak on my…
Well, you know what I’m saying.
I did, I did,
In ways to hide the false reality she was projecting.
Years go by,
And I slowly open my eyes
To what would be a horror story in real life.
The murderer was one who was supposed to be the protector,
But instead, betrayed, as Lucifer did the Lord.

I was still a kid when the M word hurled words,
Words I thought only hatred itself could say
Towards me,
Towards my siblings.
Fight or flight, mind racing, hands now clenched to a fist,
I feel my muscles tighten, lungs open,
Eyes darting around, looking for my next move,
My body ready to prove! Prove that I’m no child!
But no.
I stand there and look,
All of a sudden, calm.
But why?

I look at my brother.
His tears screaming from his eyes.
Then at my sister,
Pure fear, hands motioning back and forth on her arms as if she was trying to soothe herself,
As if what was once her M word
Had changed into a monster amongst the town,
Destroying everything in its path,
Feeding off emotions and spitting them back out onto you.

Silence.
A silence so loud,
You think you hear the whispers of the particles in the atmosphere.
The experience of sheer terror lodged in the crevices of your brain.
A boomerang of “loving and caring”
To all of a sudden, it’s Judas kissing you on your cheek.

Now…
Now I can’t say the M word.
I don’t want to think it.
Every time my lips try to form the word, it’s stuck.
Stuck at the M—M- Mo-
“You know who I’m talking about.”
I don’t have the usual love for her as sweet as a dove,
At this point, I don’t think I have any at all.
I don’t have that special place in my heart that loves her
Like every young man has had since he was a boy.

But there was a time,
Before the hatred dripped from her mouth like venom,
A look in her eyes I could never forget, it felt as if I was looking into the eyes of a demon,
Two pits of darkness never so vibrant.
I used to think love existed there,
Somewhere hidden deep beneath the jagged edges of her.
There were moments where I would search for it,
In her eyes, in her voice, in the touch that once soothed.
But each time I looked,
It slipped further away
A memory,
A lie I told myself to sleep at night.

The M word,
The one that always said in a fit of anger, “I birthed you, you’re MY son,”
Held me as an infant.
She was supposed to be warmth,
But instead turned cold like stone.
She was supposed to protect,
But sharpened her words like knives, ready for use.
She was supposed to love.
But instead,
I became the enemy.

And isn’t that the worst betrayal?
To be born into love,
Only to be forced out of it,
To have the very thing you were meant to trust
Shatter in your hands,
Leaving behind nothing but shards you can’t piece back together?

I watched as my brother crumbled falling for her traps.
Watched as my sister trembled, searching for escape,
And now copes in many different ways, thinking to herself, “What could I have done differently?”
It’s not your fault.
And I think,
What did we do to deserve this?
What crime have we committed that our existence feels like a punishment
Under the gaze of the one who should have been a person you could look up to?

I used to dream that one day as a kid
She’d turn back,
That the monster would leave her body,
And I would finally hear the word ‘sorry’ fall from her lips.
But even if she did, it wouldn’t be genuine,
But an attempt at winning me over so she could continue feasting off my energy
Until I became one of her puppets.

Now I know that day won’t come.
And maybe that’s why I can’t say it.
The M word,
Because it doesn’t mean the same thing anymore.
It doesn’t mean love.
It doesn’t mean safety.
It doesn’t mean home.
It’s an empty word,
A ghost of something that could have been,
But never was.

And so I stay silent,
Because in that silence,
I’m safe from the lies,
From the memories that haunt me,
From the false hope I once held.

But deep down,
I know I used to search.
Waiting.
Waiting for the M word to become something real.
For her to become what she was supposed to be.
Looking for what I was supposed to have in the M word in others.
But I know,
As much as I’ve tried to bury it,
That day will never come.

Objection in the court of my soul, and I rebuke the negativity that she ensues.
Now I’m older, my father is the only one who has to show what a parent is supposed to be.
A best friend.
A mentor.
Loving.
Caring.
One you can always go to.

I don’t need no M word.

And so, I remain.

Silent.
Thinking there’s that one word I’ll never say

Because love was never there.

- Robert Jordan

Feelings

Feelings

What is

The

        Deep.

                 Felt.

             Ticklish stabs so deep

You feel it as an electricity running through your veins.

The heart doing jumping jacks thinking of how

     Sweet.

Sweet like brown sugar.

    But

Looks of a

             Pink peony.

Such a distinctive and beautiful aura that makes light in the atmosphere that surrounds.

Why

    Do

       I?

Get rushed by this unseen force that rips my

breath out my lungs When I come in contact?

I try to find it but it remains dormant.

The cycles

          Of something beating against my chest.

Waiting to be let out and unfold what’s inside onto this house.

Shower.

      With.

              Love.

Is what comes

Natural.

Wanting to show every part of what she deserves.

So hard to keep my tone steady, my Adam’s apple locked.

Oh

     My

        Her

              Eyes

So vibrant with the beautiful color that resembles that of a silky royal brown.

Stare me in mine. Both seem to have a flow of a prominent connection between.

Wait

Is

   It

True?

That the one who makes my soul feel bright feels for me too? Who makes my hands play with the nails that lie upon them?

Feelings

         Are

           Real

For the first time in what seemed like eternity. My spirit finally feels for another.

And now

I wait.

Hoping she feels the same pull, the same rush, the same spark that lights me up inside.

Wondering

  if

   her

     heart

        skips too

When our eyes meet

          when silence speaks.

     The way her smile could heal

a thousand cracks.

And her voice could calm the storm that brews within.
I hold my breath in moments shared,
In hopes she’ll feel the weight I bear.

Does

   she

     know

       what

         she

        makes

           me

           see?
That love could bloom so

quietly?

I

   wait

With all the patience I can borrow.
For her answer today, tomorrow
I’ll wait.

And I don’t care if it's yes or if it’s no,

My feelings.

        now awake.

          will continue to grow.

Loves flow.

VENTilation

VENTilation

The other day a young boy asked “why don’t you cry?” “ I want to be as strong as you when I’m older.” When those words hit my ears I felt a descending of my heart, knowing that he doesn’t want the radiation from life injected into his spirit, sweat started creeping out from my pores, hands tightened, hand caressing my chin frantically searching for one of many answers I could pull from the files in my mind.

At last a few words slipped out.

“I don’t know.”

But I knew that was a lie because I do cry.

Definition of cry is when tears come from those two little balls called your eyes right?

Cry o cry, my cry is silent but the tears that stream speak many.

Many words that remain unsaid afraid of who what when will I be judged, my feelings want to be let out but my tongue won’t budge.

Can’t. Won’t. Don’t. Answer any of anyone’s questions, but if you decide to, make sure to avoid that big gulp, they’ll see that your temple is attempting to arrest your words. Put them away for good and say the phrase “I’m good.”

You see that “I’m good” goes a long way, when you say that they’ll leave you alone and just say a simple “oh” then move on.

Then you will be left “alone”

But that’s what you wanted right? To suppress what you deem to be “difficult” in reality it’s a response caused by

You getting tore up by one who was supposed to be a mother bear.

Trauma.

Now i know that “I don’t know” wasn’t a good answer because I truly do. I do cry.

So i back up my answer and say.

“I do. And when you’re older you’ll understand, and maybe you’ll be able to comprehend, young man. You will cry and those cries ain’t nothing but weakness leaving your body. It’s only natural, but you as a man have to be able to withstand.”

I look the young boy in his eyes, looks of shock spring across his face and now. He responds.

“You’re welcome.”

A look of confusion brushes across my face, my brows scrunched. Then I look in the mirror and see. See me standing side by side with my younger embodiment.

“You needed that ventilation.”

As if he heard every word that was said in my mind when he asked.

I pause, feeling the air grow thick, the weight of words unspoken sinking in.

The boy fades into the shadow of my past, and I’m left standing there, alone again.

In the silence, the cold truth seeps in, chilling my bones.

Ventilation only clears the air for a moment,
but the weight…

it never leaves.

Note from author: I wrote this as a way to express the difficulties I have been experiencing from the past month, and now that I see, a new chapter has begun. Talk about your feelings don’t hold them in, talk to the right people and you will see improvement within yourself, and your soul. Ways to get rid of that weight is to work it off, face it, acknowledge it and take it down.

Trial of a romantic

Trial of a Romantic

In the name of a beating organ in your chest,
I hereby stand, doing my absolute best—
Best to keep this ball of love from plunging
Into a darkened frozen abyss.

Too soon to be on the moon,
Head over heels for a beauty you couldn't resist.
Moments of happiness, laughter, and things of that nature
Now feel wasted, as I seek that warmth
Only one can give, a warmth I have tasted. A tenderness to it you can’t forget

Tick tock, tick tock. Your trial is coming to an end.

Now day by day, this ball of red loving energy
Opens more and more, your soul growing comfortable,
As if nestled in a bed of white feathers.
The soothing touch encourages thoughts of a future
With that symbol of beauty you couldn’t resist.

Tick tock, tick tock. Your trial draws closer.

You’ve finally found that raspberry beret
The king of rock has described—or so you think.

Now the red ball is vulnerable,
Trusting this beauty to be the eve to your Adam,
Yet fearing it may soon shrink into a atom

Trust your gut.

You get to know this beauty , and this symbol reminds you
Of a prairie of pink peonies, butterflies flourishing from the sense of love this prairie brings
Find their way into your stomach. Causing you to feel warm and fuzzy.

Lost in la la land vibrant sound waves
Echoing through the night to romantic conversations
That stretch into eternity. You think you’ve found
A peace you thought you couldn’t reach.
What was once a little ball of red
Has now expanded to the size of the vast light in the sky.

Apologize to yourself now; your trial has ended.

The echoing sound waves from the previous night have came to a simmer.

You feel as if the symbol of beauty has shifted,
to another presence. You wake drained,
it seems the butterflies have lost their flame.
You know that symbol of beauty is gone.

Letters you send out, hoping for a response,
Come back untouched, just as you have written.
You believed you two could have been a work of art,
Yet in moments, it exploded,
Revealing sinister black paint that stares into your eyes as it tears
That red ball from your body. And obliterates what once was.

The trial is over.
Now the warmth that once lit you
Is in the casket for its funeral.

Love's requiem.

Are we safe anymore?

Are we safe anymore?

I wanna say it’s not true, are we safe anymore?  bullets flying in and out through the main room doors. Just say it’s not true, parents see and hear that their kids are gone,  the pacing of hearts, their minds racing, they don't know what to do. Imagine the pain of seeing your classmates go, they look the same but it’s not them. Meaning the trauma that was inflicted into these childrens innocent minds alters them in a way that is unseen; they won’t live the same  living in constant fear of the event occurring again. Trauma.

Trauma. You don’t gotta cry but imagine the kids' fear, them hearing those loud noises and hearing the bullets ricochet off the walls of the neighbors. All huddled in a dark room that was once warm and vibrant that has now gone cold. Screams and then silence and while all that occurring you sit in silence trying your best, trying your best to hold your breath because if you don't your next. The teachers not wasting a breath to protect and save lives of the kids that they didn’t even know, Throwing their bodies in front of the bullets that were flying through the air, covering the children with a shield of their own body in order to deny. Put some respect on their names. They put themselves up as a target to make it even, they didn’t need a good reason to put themselves in the way of danger to protect kids they didn't even know. 

Now let's sit in silence as the wind blows.

Are we safe anymore? The parents now fear sending their offspring to school in worry of danger occurring, dreading every text from their wondering if it's just about school or if they are in harm's way, the kids having to spend everyday in school wondering if it’s their last, the parents ready to make it there fast. 

And thank you to all of the teachers who are there for the students, who lost their lives due to these terrible tragedies, only to imagine how they feel. The ones who survived won't be the same after the things they witnessed. It’s okay to be okay and it’s okay to not be.

I’m still over here that I’m still in high school. Are we safe anymore? Can we trust anymore? Will the schools protect us from these terrible people? Will brothers, sisters, mothers, daughters, fathers make it home? Or will they have to go to their second one? I sit in fear, now regretting that I wasn't scared because I thought it wouldn’t be big, but the events have latched on like a tick. I thank God because I could've been crawling out from the bleachers yelling out to the police for help, because before I couldn't even yelp in fear of my life that was at stake. 

What about the ones who lost their lives, what they thought in their last moments Hearing the sound of that door bursting open. Seeing that weapon in the threat's hand and looking for a first line of defense. What about the ones that couldn't comprehend? Meaning they were laughing and playing and they didn’t know what was going on, shots rang out and their heavenly souls were with the lord. “Mommy i'm scared” protrudes the fear in which one felt. The last text that was sent to a parent who couldn’t see their daughter anymore. Imagine! Imagine that pain! Schools are “welcome to all” but take no precaution at all.  

Now a little girl hates herself for being alive after her friend was taken, looking at herself in the mirror asking 

“why couldn’t it have been me” 

Now that little boy who was full of light and spirit wants to kill himself and explore the dark, he’s gone cold and his parents can't even get through to him.

Now a husband won’t have a beautiful Wife and his kids won't have a wonderful mother regretting not saying goodbye to her and that they loved one last time before she went off to work.

Now Kids, teens, and adults all over America are filled with worry, hurt, fear,. Because these holes in the schools have caused a tear in humanity.

Now silence lingers in the silent halls.

Less of “let’s pray for them” and more of “let’s do something about it” 

Say their names!

CASSIE BERNALL • STEVEN CURNOW • COREY DEPOOTER • KELLY FLEMING • MATTHEW KECHTER • DANIEL MAUSER • DANIEL ROHRBOUGH • WILLIAM DAVE SANDERS • RACHEL SCOTT • ISAIAH SHOELS • JOHN TOMLIN • LAUREN TOWNSEND • KYLE VELASQUEZ • DERRICK BRUN • DEWAYNE LEWIS • DARYL LUSSIER • CHASE LUSSIER • NEVA ROGERS • CHANELLE ROSEBEAR • MICHELLE SIGANA • THURLENE STILLDAY • ALICIA WHITE • NAOMI ROSE EBERSOL • MARIAN STOLTZFUS FISHER • LENA ZOOK MILLER • MARY LIZ MILLER • ANNA MAE STOLTZFUS • ROSS ALAMEDDINE • JAMIE BISHOP • BRIAN BLUHM • RYAN CLARK • AUSTIN CLOYD • JOCELYNE COUTURE-NOWAK • DANIEL PEREZ CUEVAS • KEVIN GRANATA • MATTHEW GWALTNEY • CAITLIN HAMMAREN • JEREMY HERBSTRITT • RACHAEL HILL • EMILY HILSCHER • MATTHEW LA PORTE • JARRETT LANE • HENRY LEE • LIVIU LIBRESCU • PARTAHI LOMBANTORUAN • LAUREN MCCAIN • DANIEL O'NEIL • JUAN RAMON ORTIZ • G.V. PALANIVEL • MINAL PANCHAL • ERIN PETERSON • MICHAEL POHLE • JULIA PRYDE • MARY READ • REEMA SAMAHA • WALEED MOHAMED SHAALAN • LESLIE SHERMAN • MAXINE TURNER • NICOLE WHITE • GAYLE DUBOWSKI • CATALINA GARCIA • JULIANNA GEHANT • RYANNE MACE • DANIEL PARMENTER • TSHERING BHUTIA • DORIS CHIBUKO • SONAM CHOEDON • GRACE KIM - KATLEEN PING • JUDITH SEYMOUR • LYDIA SIM

• CHARLOTTE HELEN BACON • DANIEL BARDEN • RACHEL D'AVINO • OLIVIA ROSE ENGEL • JOSEPHINE GAY • DAWN HOCHSPRUNG •

CHRISTOPHER ROSS

MICHAELS-MARTINEZ • WEIHAN WANG • VERONIKA WEISS • SHAYLEE CHUCKULNASKIT • ANDREW FRYBERG • ZOE GALASSO • GIA SORIANO • LUCERO ALCARAZ • TREVEN TAYLOR ANSPACH • REBECKA ANN CARNES • QUINN GLEN COOPER • KIM SALTMARSH DIETZ

• LUCAS EIBEL • JASON DALE JOHNSON • LAWRENCE LEVINE • SARENA DAWN MOORE • ALYSSA ALHADEFF • MARTIN DUQUE ANGUIANO • SCOTT BEIGEL • NICHOLAS DWORET • AARON FEIS • JAIME GUTTENBERG • CHRISTOPHER HIXON • LUKE HOYER • CARA LOUGHRAN • GINA MONTALTO • JOAQUIN OLIVER • ALAINA PETTY • MEADOW POLLACK • HELENA RAMSAY • ALEX SCHACHTER •

CARMEN SCHENTRUP • PETER WANG •JARED BLACK • SHANA FISHER • CHRISTIAN RILEY GARCIA • KYLE MCLEOD • ANN PERKINS • ANGELIQUE RAMIREZ • SABIKA SHEIKH • CHRIS STONE • CYNTHIA TISDALE • KIMBERLY VAUGHAN • MADISYN BALDWIN • TATE MYRE

• JUSTIN SHILLING • HANA ST. JULIANA • NEVAEH BRAVO • JACKLYN CAZARES • MAKENNA LEE ELROD • JOSE FLORES JR. • IRMA GARCIA • UZIYAH GARCIA • ELIANA "ELLIE" GARCIA • AMERIE JO GARZA • XAVIER LOPEZ • JAYCE CARMELO LUEVANOS • TESS MARIE MATA • MIRANDA MATHIS • EVA MIRELES • ALITHIA RAMIREZ • ANNABELLE GUADALUPE RODRIGUEZ • MAITE YULEANA RODRÍGUEZ • ALEXANDRIA "LEXI" ANIYAH RUBIO • LAYLA SALAZAR • JAILAH NICOLE SILGUERO • ELIAHANA CRUZ TORRES • ROJELIO TORRES

JESSE LEWIS • ANA GRACE • NOAH POZNER • JACK PINTO •VICTORIA SOTO • BENJAMIN • DYLAN HOCKLEY • CAROLINE

The things that develop

The things that develop.

The feelings I can’t describe overpower my will to thrive, issues after issues. Please let me get a tissue, wipe away my flaws and maybe I’ll be useful for a better cause. Rather than sulking in my own despair of my own mistakes that took place, maybe I’m not enough, maybe I’m not who I thought I was.

Thinking and thinking I’m thinking I’m alright but maybe I’m mistaken, maybe I’m fooling myself into believing I don’t want any type of assistance when it comes to the sputters of overthinking my mind inflicts. They come in waves of cliques pushing and pushing making false thoughts become reality.  Then I get to feeling cowardly, but again am I who I think I am?

Maybe I’m not a man yet, maybe I’m just a boy who needs a certain guidance or the rules I’m not abiding by. Just an ignorant fool who can’t seem to think straight.

It’s crazy that those thoughts hit me like a freight train, the sense of a weight that won’t go away, the heart feeling as low as if in a grave all caged up by an overwhelment of emotions, living off of tokens given by those who inspire.

But maybe I am who I believe to be and not just some wannabe, maybe the intrusion of thoughts are just waves of weakness in the mind that I’m leaving behind. Maybe, just maybe I fought that battle with myself and overcame thyself. And now what’s left is an improved and renewed man who’s ready to take on the rays of hatred, attacks, fear, anger, tests, love, heartbreak, lust, it’s all no longer. Because now I am stronger.

Daffodil Field

Daffodil field

There was a field of flowers which was widely known for its beauty. 

The yellow daffodils that shine bright like the morning light when your parent wakes you up from your slumber. 

When you see the vibrant yellow petals they put a smile on your face and you feel a sense of profound inner warmth.

It’s the kind of place where you would go to forgive and forget, the everlasting presence of where the daffodils shine. 

It’s a place that appears if you believe in your heart, daffodil field is in your heart.

There was a boy who sat all alone by the creek, it was flowing with red roses and the beauty of the flowers flowing in the subtle wind in the back. The trickles of warmth the water inflicted when it flourished on his skin caused him to forget, 

To seeming to forget the reality of where problems reside, he’s taken an eternal peace in daffodil field.

You look all around and you see the employees of the world running around with a great youthful joy,the displaying of laughter echoes throughout the field deteriorating any sense of darkness that tries to blend in. In daffodil field your soul's light is found.

I then look all around, my soul is sound, and then the World goes quiet. 

Daffodil field has taken effect.

Yeah I’m tough!

Violence. Foolishness. Ignorance. Is what my definition of toughness used to be. You see i thought that I had to show no weakness, to “fight to show masculinity” to show that

I’m, in newer terms “that guy.”

but no, not no more. It’s gets to a point where you realize all that you called toughness was insecurity, fighting for a spot in people’s eyes that showed them I’m tough. But it was too much, I’ve had enough. Real masculinity is settling back and being your authentic self and not stunt for others, being masculine isn’t throwing yourself out there trying to prove something to people, proving things to yourself is all you need.

You don’t need validation from others to know who YOU are, you should know yourself more than others do. The real definition of toughness isn’t fighting, talking shit, and being a fool. It’s when you take a step up that stool, to the next level to elevate yourself, it’s where you take devastation head on and turn it into realization. Toughness is when you grow from your mistakes, removing yourself from negative crowds and surrounding yourself with love and positivity.

Toughness isn’t gang banging or danger displaying

it’s not “you better not fuck with me or Ima hurt you”, it’s not being the biggest on the earth like David and Goliath. In that story the tough actor got defeated by the authentic one.

Now I think back, back to that freshman who was out to prove something through violence, and who knew that would be the end. The end of an era of fakeness and onto an era of a new toughness, not the violent toughness but the real toughness. I can finally say “Yeah I am tough!” Because at the end of the day the real toughness was growing beyond the dirt I was stuck in.

-Robert Jordan

Pirates upon the vessel

pirates upon the vessel

It’s time to lock yourself away, away from the pirates that have onboarded the vessel.

They don’t care where they swing, just as long as they damage you. Hurry away there’s pirates aboard the vessel tonight.

The love you once had for your vessel, will soon flourish in an instant, because of the pirates upon the vessel.

Just when you thought the attack was finished more cone through, it’s just a repeated cycle for more harm to be done to you.

Look out there’s pirates upon the vessel.

Love if you’re real come lift me, from all the pain and despair,  it’s getting to where it’s too much to bear. Now I sit here in fear, the fear of becoming as a stone where no emotions show. No bright colors but just existence. The persistence of the pirates aiming for the heart of the vessel.

That’ll be the results if the pirates keep attacking the vessel.

The pirates, they’re so awfully greedy some come in forms of angels like Lucifer does at your highest.

But in the end they turn that switch, that terrible switch where, you don’t even know them.

“Are they the same when you met? “You question, and that’s when you’re deep in no man’s land. You can’t return, they already got that hold.

They then thrash you, they slash you, they use and abuse you. Beating you as if you were some alien that invaded the space. You are scared to realize, that you are a victim of their attack and yet.. you still have love for them?

They then vanish as if they didn’t know you, and then you’re left with a hole in your heart, questioning your character, hating yourself asking “WHY DID I LET THEM!” Out of pure fury.

All because of the pirates that were upon the vessel.

When Swans Weep

Find if you will the picture, of you and I engaged in a kiss.

I thought the Toxicness wouldn’t bother me, but boy was I wrong. Can you my darling?  can you picture this?

Fall into of a dream of a field of grass, an ocean of roses and blues. Then suddenly catching fire between the heat, the heat between me and you.

How can you just leave me standing in a lonely world that’s so cold. Maybe I’m just too demanding, maybe I’m the one who’s too bold.

Maybe you’re  just like my mother, she’s never satisfied. Why do we go back and forth with each other. This is what looks like.

This is what it looks like when swans weep

No, this can’t be. No.

Now I remember my stomach, how it felt when it trembled inside. Every time I came around you like my soul was telling me no.

Don’t make me chase you, even swans have pride.

You left with no explanation, maybe it’s not me who’s bold. Maybe it’s not you who’s the victim, but the one who inflicted the hurt.

Now what I called “love” makes sense now it was attachment that was caused by trauma.

The trauma caused by a coyote who incapacitated a swan.

When a swan weeps he shall see the truth and suffer no more.

— Robert Jordan

Note from author: if you ever go through toxicity or narcissism from your relationships constantly. It’s best to get away from that situation asap, before they create that trauma bond on you. Leave them before they leave you. So you won’t have to go through the hurt.