Tracing Nas

“Study is how vision sharpens.”

I used to trace Nas rhymes,

then say Nas rhymes.

I was ten,

going on eleven—

New York State of Mind.

Where I backflip

into eloquence,

elaboration.

My mind’s racing,

but I’m running with him.

This subsection of suppliance,

society’s survival surveillance.

I’m standing,

seeing everything—

4K enhancements.

Ain’t nobody fucking with him.

He got me picturing myself

in Timbs,

army jacket,

skully—

the way I wear it.

I’m stepping through

the fog of Queensbridge,

where all these niggas live.

Visionary designer.

New York State of minder.

That nigga Nas had insomnia.

It’s no sleeping.

Working With My Breath

“Craft begins where comfort ends.”

2Pac—mature.

Now I’m working with my breath.

Developed from sleeping on the floor,

reading with the book on my chest.

Pallets were plush,

but this notebook had me in a lex,

a plane—

a place I live in today.

No friends.

No shame.

So shameless.

Putting everything in frame

from what I’ve seen.

Extraordinary—they call me Jhust.

That’s how they labeled me.

That nigga crazy.

Little did they know

I’m insanely passionate

about crafting this caption

with power.

Under the TV Light

“Memory survives by becoming language.”

Underneath the TV light,

he kept his background dark

so he could see the imagery

in his sleep.

The words glowed—

scriptures in gold,

archetypal, original.

Why does it rhyme so well?

Easier to remember

when you’re under pressure,

going through deeper shit

than friends who got it messier.

He keeps a straight face,

smiles like dopamine

is overdosing in his brain.

It’s fall—

still windy, still chills.

Secret tears drip.

It’s just the cold.

But he still feels it—

from a past,

a series of unfortunate events.

On Purpose

“Silence sharpens what noise dulls.”

Sophisticated and rude—

this is how I talk.

I don’t have an attitude.

I stay on mute,

observing how everybody move.

I’m on point

on purpose.

Mug meant.

Stance straight.

Militant with intent.

Don’t bet on your hands.

Your mans late.

Though I’m in my head,

it could get gingerbread

in a second.

Mask off—

these the ones who be stepping.

If writing was a weapon,

I would’ve outlived

a hundred sentences.

Heavy Now

“Weight teaches what speed never could.”

I come off intimidating.

My passion flows like menstruation.

Complex Simplicity!

I value patience.

I’m ready now — why wait?

I’m heavy now.

My fate.

Holding this heavy world,

my shoulders ache.

My imaginary wings grew to my shins.

SHEIN is not the brand I walk in.

Not much into fashion or talking.

I’m a gala dresser.

College professor.

Malcolm X in black sweaters.

Hood —

but when I’m good,

I relax better.

Secondhand Presence

“Spoken about, but never spoken to.”

Spoken about,

but never spoken to.

Definitions

“Some answers arrive through endurance.”

— J. Elahi

The only friend I have

is this pen.

When nobody’s phone is working,

I’m writing

until my hand starts hurting.

I don’t have all the answers—

but I know the definitions.

What We Never Sat Down to Say — Part II

“Truth doesn’t ask permission. It asks for responsibility.”

— J. Elahi

You told me my family hates me.

My children hate me.

Your family hates me.

Your mother couldn’t stand me.

The truth is —

I loved all of them.

Until I stopped listening.

Until I stopped letting your experience

rewrite our reality.

You learned how to isolate pieces —

delicate ones —

and tear them apart.

I said things I didn’t mean.

But I meant the pain.

My words fought back

when my fists should have stayed still.

You were right to say I wasn’t shit —

because I hit you.

I abused because I was abused.

That explains nothing.

It excuses nothing.

But the truth doesn’t stop there.

You were abusive too —

to me,

and to our children.

I remember the day clearly.

The screaming.

The crying.

The yelling.

A child slapped for not listening.

Breath knocked out of a body

that trusted us.

I reacted.

Violently.

Protectively.

Wrongly.

But hear me when I say this:

Do not ever harm my children.

Do not ever touch them in anger.

I will choose consequence

before I choose silence.

That’s not pride.

That’s a boundary written in bone.

This is not a victory story.

This is a reckoning.

And reckoning is where healing either begins —

or never does.

Everlasting

“Not everything needs power when it already holds memory.”

— J. Elahi

Weathered whether we surpass it—

indifferent endeavors,

natural tendency,

elite identity.

I’m like that first sip of Hennessy:

first sour,

then it becomes sweet.

I’m nasty—

with three stages of memory:

Past.

Present.

Eternity.

My mind equipped with no batteries.

It’s like a MacBook library—

always charged,

always archived.

Everlasting.

Beyond Impressions

“Connection outlives attention.”

— J. Elahi

I’m proving what’s possible—

and that’s connection.

We’re too impressed with impressions.

Communication matters.

These people are already famous.

It’s time to get our shine.

The Inkwell

“Every line holds weight once it’s stained.”

— J. Elahi

My notebook is an inkwell.

When a tear hits the page,

the ink stains.

The paper swells.

Lines solid.

I always hated college rules.

I used grids instead—

so I could break it down

like astrophysics.

Speaking Through Masks

“I used characters to survive.
I speak raw to understand.””

— J. Elahi

I created characters to speak from the parts of me that didn’t have the courage yet. They carried what I couldn’t say. But that isn’t all of me. I’m raw, uncut, unfiltered—and I like it that way. Sometimes the only way forward is to return to the dead end and study it.

Influence

“This didn’t fix me.
It gave shape to thoughts I was already living.”

— J. Elahi

This didn’t fix me.

It gave shape to thoughts I was already carrying.

Get Yourself Together

“Act like you been somewhere.”

Narrated by. J. Elahi

Yourn.

Act like you been somewhere, dammit.

Tuck your shirt in.

Get yourself together.

Your mama running the street—

ain’t said cat, dog, hi, bye, nothing.

She know I got shit to do.

Bring your black ass on here.

Dammit.

Tread Lightly

“My grandmother knew. She wasn’t stupid.”

My grandmother knew.

She wasn’t stupid.

I had girls in the house—

and some more shit.

Somebody told on you.

What you doing in Paterson?

In my head I’m like, oh shit.

I thought this was about

the girls in the house.

How you know?

Don’t worry.

Tread lightly.

(Kiss my teeth.)

Still Sludge on My Reeboks

“Some intelligence survives by hiding.”

Procuring education

so I could fulfill my destination.

Psychology and patience.

Reflective writing—

to tame past anger.

Power Ranger—spin the block.

Hop off the bike: hit, kick, dip.

Jail was a punishment.

No real friends.

No real bids.

But sitting in that place was strange.

I didn’t like any of them.

I needed another plan.

Deal with the demons.

Heal.

Fuck it.

It’s eighteen months or bail.

I didn’t know what to do—

my mom was at work,

and we weren’t really cool.

Why didn’t I finish school?

Socially awkward.

I didn’t want to walk like them,

talk like them.

My mother told me I was original.

I looked it up:

Something born at the source.

Not borrowed.

Not echoed.

Not traced.

So why did originality

keep me so self-contained?

You always say no.

I don’t even know

what yes feels like.

I was prescriptive.

I didn’t want much.

I became self-disciplined—

more constructive than destructive,

productive.

In class, disruptive.

I already knew the material.

I had to pretend I wasn’t smart.

That was hard.

I’ve been through the mud.

There’s still sludge on my Reeboks.

Still Adjusting

“Growth isn’t loud.
It recalibrates.”

Superman needed the sun.

All I need is semi-auto drums—

a rhythm of coming up,

a cult of focus, not followers.

Adjusting to being treated unjustly,

just to get comfortable being Jhust.

What?

Every answer leads to results.

We don’t do refunds—

even your heart ain’t enough.

This is emotional intelligence.

Sort out your emotional benevolence.

Reality versus expectation.

Reference the difference

between vision

and belief.

My expectations were so high

the disappointment

had me sleeping for weeks,

swimming in sheets.

This recoup will be elite.

Build back from destruction.

Keep in mind—

I’m still adjusting.

Until We Start

“History doesn’t repeat itself.
It reappears in new forms.”

The next Haile Selassie

could be an architect.

The next Malcolm X

could be a fashion designer.

We won’t know

until we start.

If I Wasn’t From There

“Environment teaches faster than school ever could.”

My hood traded

ABCs

into

Audis,

Benz,

Cash Money.

One K.

Ten K.

All black—no play.

Guns, no masks.

All day on that corner.

Weed smoke rose like clouds in the cold.

Everywhere else felt foreign.

If I died today,

I’m coming back a yardie still.

Up and down Third Street Hill

just to watch the god bodies build.

How traffic moves when you got crack on you.

How the police don’t give a fuck

unless you sell to one of them.

The armor was proof.

That’s why I don’t wear tattoos—

I protect my temple.

Plus I get bored looking at the same shit anyway.

Doors kicked in.

Police raiding.

Helicopters landing in the park.

You would never think it was hard.

You would never think it was hood.

Forever up to no good.

But if I wasn’t from there,

I wouldn’t come there.

Assertive Flaws

“Clarity doesn’t need volume.
It needs intention.”

Pardon my etiquette.

I have assertive flaws.

Too busy getting ready

for the world’s next war.

I’m not for sure.

They said the world ended yesterday—

I’ve been here forty-four years

and a handful of days.

Washed-down conditions.

Extracted back to neutral stimulus

as I continue—

I insist on diligence.

I enunciate

so I don’t sound oblivious

to what I’m saying.