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.

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.

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.)

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, 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.

The Subconscious Library

“Not everything stored deserves retrieval.”

The subconscious is a library—

a living archive of memory, experience, instinct, and repetition.

Everything you absorbed without permission

is stored there.

The conscious is the filter.

The editor.

It decides what gets retrieved,

what gets framed as thought,

and what remains buried.

One holds everything.

The other chooses.

Remember—

some memories must be shredded

to make room for new ones.

Spring-clean the mind.

Discard what’s broken.

Release what no longer serves you.

Low Cost

A like won’t cost you a million dollars.

No risk.

No sacrifice.

No explanation required.

Just a small acknowledgment that something reached you.

I’ve watched people hesitate anyway.

As if recognition were a currency they might run out of.

As if generosity needed approval.

But attention moves things.

Quietly.

Incrementally.

You don’t always see the change right away—

just a shift in posture,

a little more confidence in the next step,

a reason to keep going.

Nothing dramatic.

Just the world responding

to being noticed.

Longevity

I want my scriptures to sing—

not loudly,

but with the discipline of a choir

that practiced long before it was heard.

I want the work to outlive me.

Not my name.

The work.

I’m not aiming for fans.

Crowds disappear.

I’m aiming for a seat—

with the scholar,

the professor,

the literature that gets studied

instead of skimmed.

Where psychology meets autonomy.

Where biology explains behavior.

Where creative writing isn’t decoration,

but evidence.

That kind of table doesn’t invite noise.

It invites patience.

So I write with care.

I revise with intention.

I learn what came before me

so I don’t mistake repetition for originality.

This isn’t confidence borrowed from applause.

This is commitment.

I got this.

Visibility

I’m monetizing now.

Not chasing attention—

controlling it.

Not everyone wants to read.

I accept that.

So I’m building a lane

for readers.

The algorithm doesn’t run on depth.

It runs on familiarity.

Not scripts.

Not stories.

Not long poems.

That doesn’t mean people don’t feel my work.

It means my work isn’t made

for every place.

So I adapt without compromising.

I leave short poems.

Quotes.

Quick sparks.

Something small enough

to move through the day with—

a caption that lives

longer than the scroll.

And for those who want more,

the door is open.

What We Never Sat Down to Say

“Distance reveals what closeness couldn’t.”

I wasn’t just trying to bust a nut.

Our children were made out of love.

But when it’s us—

it’s my kids this,

my kids that.

You ain’t shit.

You don’t do nothing for these kids.

Your mom bald-headed.

Your sister a bitch.

You ain’t shit.

After all this, I realized—

love was never the fix.

We filled the cracks,

plastered the holes,

but never repainted the wall.

Why does this always happen on Sundays?

Some days you’re okay.

Not manic.

I don’t understand what this is,

but I keep telling myself

we will manage.

We were damaged

way before we met.

In your family, it felt like everybody

already knew all the answers.

After all these years,

nobody knew you were schizophrenic?

On top of bipolar disorder?

Who was supposed to have your back?

Your brother and sister didn’t even like you.

Everybody said you were crazy.

I didn’t care about none of that.

This is the mother of my children.

I met my first son

a day after he was born.

A month later,

I was on child support.

I couldn’t pay

because I was home with him

while everybody else was trying

to buy into my presence.

A month later,

I got locked up.

Already in arrears.

We never sat down.

We never talked about this.

Why do you always insult me

instead of talking?

Everybody knew—

except me.

That’s how it’s always been.

That’s why I hate surprises.

Because it’s always

some bad shit.

“Oh, she ain’t crazy.

She ain’t crazy.”

Who wakes up at 4 a.m.

to harass you

about something that happened

ten years ago?

Now everybody in your family

a bitch and a hoe.

Everybody baby ugly.

And some more shit.

Thirty days later,

you smiling and laughing

with the same people

you was just talking about.

“I’m not a real man.”

How do you say that

when everything I’ve done since we met

shows otherwise?

I broke my spine for Christmas

so my children could have everything.

Your mother said I was faking.

I never knew

what you really meant.

Do you only feel that way

on your manic days?

Or do you feel that way

on your good days too?

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.

Wake Up Call

I wasn’t properly loved.

So my emotional intelligence

developed through negligence.

You learn fast that way.

Not because you’re gifted—

but because you have to be.

You grow up knowing you’re beyond good enough

and still get rejected.

Beyond good enough

and still unaccepted.

That’s the part that messes with you.

When effort doesn’t equal belonging.

When worth doesn’t guarantee safety.

You start asking the wrong question.

Not am I enough?

But am I too much?

Too present.

Too aware.

Too intense for people who only know how to meet you halfway.

That’s when the voice changes.

Not cruel.

Not loud.

Just firm.

Mr. J. Elahi—

sir.

It’s time to get up.