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.

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.

Assertive, Not Loud

I speak assertive, not rude.

I play dumb and laugh

not to be disrespectful—

but to avoid telling you

the truth about you.

I sidestep my own thoughts

and offer encouragement

even while you’re still talking.

Because the mind has a way of trauma-dumping

when it’s been conditioned to survive that way.

I know people who swear

their truth is the truth,

but wear rain boots

on the hottest day of summer.

No wonder.

I’m not into hype or hysteria.

Not into the news.

Not interested in sports—

I don’t really care who wins.

I’m into writing.

Technology.

Women.

Only When

Do I answer when you call?

Do I check on you?

Do I know your birthday,

your favorite color,

your quiet fears?

Or do I only know you

when you need something?

My boundaries won’t let me

keep getting played.

I won’t be a place you visit

only when the world gets heavy.

In My Own Lane

The greatest minds don’t always have the greatest lives.

That used to confuse me.

You’d think intelligence would solve itself—

that thinking deeply enough would lead to comfort, clarity, or at least peace.

But it doesn’t work like that.

The goal moves every time you get closer.

Each answer opens another question.

Each step forward changes the ground beneath your feet.

That’s when I stopped pretending I was meant to arrive.

I’m not a preacher.

I’m not a saint.

I don’t live well enough for that kind of title.

What I do know is this:

I can’t survive on what people think of me.

Approval runs out.

Opinions shift.

And applause has never paid the cost of being yourself.

So I stopped explaining.

I’m different—

not loudly,

not theatrically—

just in the way I move through ideas, through silence, through choice.

And I’m confident in that difference.

Not because it’s admired,

but because it’s mine.

A great mind doesn’t need a crowd.

It needs a lane.

Recline

What’s your subconscious beef?

Who do you love?

Who did you leave?

How will you heal?

When will you believe?

It’s not about them—

they’re irrelevant

to your release.

Settle in.

Recline like a car seat.

Lay back.

Let your heart speak.

If you don’t listen,

how do you expect to compete

in a world that loves

to hurt the weak?

Know your flaws.

Stop blaming

every face you see.