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.