I walk this world knowing I am not merely a name or a reflection in glass—I am thought, will, and wonder housed within a vessel of flesh. It is my mind that leads me, my soul that stirs me, and no one else bears the burden of being me. No one else breathes my breath, thinks my thoughts, or wrestles with my truths in the quiet hours. I am not just a being—I am the keeper of a brain, a heart, and a soul. And that sacred fact is not up for negotiation.

Today, I conducted an experiment.
I really like pomegranates.

I asked my mother to prepare some.
She peeled out the seeds
very carefully—
using a spoon
to keep the process neat,
precise, and clean.
But in the end,
there was a little less fruit.

Then I asked my father.
He peeled out the seeds
roughly—
with his bare hands,
no tools, no caution.
It looked like a ****** mess.
But there was more fruit to eat.

I realized their techniques
shaped how much I got—
one careful,
one bold.
Still, I enjoyed both.

And that’s when it clicked:
though my parents approach things differently,
the result is still the same.
They both made the effort
to bring me something sweet

I’ve got the world in my hands—
but that means embracing both the good
and the flaws of every man.

Right now, the world trembles at the sight of blackness.
But let me reintroduce it:

Darkness is beautiful madness
when you learn how to use it.

It isn’t the absence of anything.
It’s a color full of meaning,
a presence rich and deep—
not empty, but complete.

It’s the ink of ancient tongues,
the rhythm in survival songs,
the womb of galaxies,
the balm of activated charcoal
that quiets your uneasy stomach with ease.

The stars in the universe wouldn’t dare shine so bright
if black weren’t the color that cradles the night.
Without it, light would lose its purpose—
and that,
would be the curse.

So I carry the world in my hands—
its bright sides and its heavy demands.
And still, I hold my head up high:
black is the color at the center of every eye.

I know the truth that lies within—
that just because light is beautiful,
doesn’t mean blackness was ever a sin.

You judge me
for the way I look—
but this is my face.

You point fingers
like I’m a science experiment.

But what about you?
You don’t speak in pretty things either.

Imagine—
if there were a transcript
printed on your body
of every word
you’ve ever said.

Would you look
so pretty then?

I’m a prime number
I remain unfazed
Until I meet my reflection
And finally crumble

I told the referee

“I don’t want to play anymore.”

The referee said “No I won’t let you, give up.”

I asked him “Why not? Who’s keeping the score?”

Then he pointed up high where the lights would never fade.

“Those people who believed in you before you ever played.”

Then he continued “They don’t cheer for you because you never fell -

They cheer for you because every time you get back up - you raise hell.”

He Doesn’t Want Me.

It used to sting—
like sanitizer on an open wound.
A sharp bite that started small,
then grew to consume.

Maybe it’s because I wasn’t pretty enough,
or because I’m too rough, not soft enough.
Still, from rawness, I create—
turning pain into power.

But I had an epiphany today:
it was never my job to make him stay.
Better things lie ahead that’s yet to come
I’ll keep marching forward,
like a soldier to the steady beat
of a snare drum.