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.

Secondhand Presence

“Spoken about, but never spoken to.”

Spoken about,

but never spoken to.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The When

I’m not in love with you.

I’m in love with the when.

When you walk by—

not looking for permission.

When you smile,

like it wasn’t rehearsed.

When that chip on your shoulder shows

just long enough to tell the truth

about where you’ve been.

When you say “excuse me,”

and I move.

And when I look back

and you say “thank you,”

like you noticed I did.

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.

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?

Negative Return

Damn—I handcuffed myself

to giving people

the attention,

care,

help,

and love

I always needed.

I turned tears into smiles.

In the moment,

it feels worth it.

But in return,

my value comes back negative—

all investment,

no return.