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.

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.

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.

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.

The Room

“Simple. Psychological. Symbolic.”

The room of silence echoes sirens.

Sound raises demons from their sleep.

It’s time to eat.

When your shadow marks its territory,

purpose becomes peripheral.

Though we can’t see what’s invisible,

demons ride your sleeve.

They ingest empaths without empathy,

armed with disastrous ideas.

They ride backs through torment,

watch—and point.

They say, get anointed.

But with every negative, there is a positive.

Light will always shine in the dark.

The room of noise collapses into silence.

Sound decreases.

Demons slumber in peace.

It’s time for my angels to speak.

Mirror Work

“This is not denial.
It’s a different angle.”

I hope you see yourself in me.

This mirror won’t show your ugly.

This mirror reflects

beauty and opportunity,

strength and structure,

optimism without denial.

My pops told me,

“No one sees you the way you see yourself.”

So let me show you what I see.

If you’re reading this,

it’s too late not to be nosey.

I see faith—

hoping one day love becomes a gain,

not a loss.

More bae, c’mon

than bae, I’m gone.

It gets sore after a while

chasing gones.

It gets boring after a while

chasing thoughts.

Life, Treated Right

I don’t need money or gifts.

I just want to experience life—

and treat it right.

Chill with Teedra Moses on the beach,

listen to her sing to me.

Experience that slow-jam party

transitioning with Lissa Monet.

Go to Jamaica,

listen to reggae.

Go to Brazil

to learn the Maringá.

Travel the shores.

Skydive out a plane.

Ride the longest train— (pause)

Nah fi hear no one complain.

Just In Time

Hello—my accent echoed.

“Where you from?”

(honey-bronze, brown skin, thick ting).

New Jersey.

“Oh yeah, what part?”

She seemed older—

and I’m addicted to older jawns.

Englewood.

“Oh yeah, my brother—

ATP!”

(This where I tune out,

’cause I don’t give a fuck.)

In my head I’m like,

I just wanna see you turn around.

“Oh yeah, that’s nice.”

“Hey, you live around here?”

Yes, ma’am.

“Hi, my name is—”

Wide hips,

ass fitting the ass-to-waist ratio.

I’m starting to get impatient though.

She seems nice.

Let’s bag it, wrap it, taste the moment.

“My name’s Jhusten—

just in time.”

Destined

“Everybody doesn’t make it back.
I did.””

— J. Elahi

I’m destined to live the dream

for my peoples who—

didn’t make it back home

like I did.

I felt left out, like a kid.

I thought we was about to ride around.

You dap me, said, “Jhust, I’m out.”

“Tighten your hoodie up.”

I turned around, you nodded, said peace.

Two weeks later, the news said homicide—

but the driver still managed

to drive to the hospital.

You was shot nine times before—

c’mon, you can make it.

The news said

y’all died in the car

at the hospital.

All we did was play Driver

on PlayStation 2.

My whole crew died

like Juice.

And I don’t have no proof

that I’m the last one left—

still alive,

still standing.

So I’m destined to live the dream

for my peeps

who didn’t make it.

Should Have

I should’ve went to Morehouse

instead of my dog’s house.

I should’ve went to school

instead of cutting up, acting a fool.

I should’ve used the tools God gave.

Instead, I was in survival mode—

ducking graves,

still grieving some type of pain.

I don’t even feel any type of way.

I just know how to write it away.

I should’ve gone to Oak Bluffs for the summer.

I was in the hood,

watching niggas serve undercovers.

God above us,

but God forgot what’s under us.

Should have.

Could have.

Would have.

I don’t blame my hood

or my past.

I accept what I can’t change.

I move forward—

because there’s nothing I lose

that I can’t get back.