Bet on Yourself

You don’t know me but you wish you wish I fit this box you made.

To “those” people: you’re surprised at my reaction to your shit, but fail to acknowledge your shit in the first place?

So, who are they? You know them:

people who try to make others look bad so that they look good.

They twist my name like cheap wire, bend my face to fit their fables, patch their own guilt with shadows of my outline—cowardly sewing masks with thread made from a yarn- a tall tale they hope sticks.

They don’t know me. They knew a version of me that they saw in their own heads, and then carved with dull knives and half-truths, stuffed with straw and rumors, then pointed at it like prophets when the fire came. Trying to justify their own behavior.

“There,” they said. “That’s him. That’s the one who burned it all down.” But their fingerprints are on the matchbox.

You wear my story like a borrowed coat, button it up tight to hide your sins and parade your virtue down bougie sidewalks, telling tales where I’m the villain in your clean little drama.

All the while, you’re the one who treated me awfully, lied, who stole, who left bruises on souls and called it normal. I see through you. I know the script.

But I know integrity, too, so I won’t say your name. And I won’t say what you’ve done. But you know who you are. You know what you’ve done.

You paint yourself as savior, but your halo’s cracked and your robe’s soaked in gasoline. I’m not a scapegoat, I’m the mirror. And if the reflection hurts, maybe it’s time you stop looking at me and start looking at you.

Keep talking. Keep scribbling your epilogues in the margins of my life. Call me outlaw, sinner, addict, dropout —whatever fits your little lens. I’ve worn every label, and none of them ever stuck.

Why do you need a villian?

You don’t get to define me just because I walked through your fire and didn’t ask for water. I’m not your cautionary tale. I’m not your punchline. I’m not the one who needs saving. But you’re too busy playing God to see the devil in the mirror.

I don’t resent. Pity for you takes care of that for me. It’s not my actions that offends you, it’s my REaction to your behavior that is perplexing you.

You just don’t like it when I stand on business, eh? And to other people who have heard “the story” about me- those “tall tales” of me.. do they think your story about me is true? I have faith in them that they don’t believe everything they hear, so that’s where your contrived power dissipates.

You wanna know the truth? Just ask! but you don’t. Fairy tales work better, they are softer and maliable and can be beaten into a salty narrative that fits the box you’ll eventually burn your hands on while holding up.

Don’t misconstrue the blues in my ink—this ain’t rage, this ain’t sorrow, this ain’t me cracking under life’s boot. Lord knows they try.. but Hell no. Life’s a symphony and I got front row seats. My life is great and I couldn’t be more proud. The sun still kisses my face and I still laugh at dogs chasing their tails.

Rain feeds the light

A purge, a pulse, a way to take the gravel in my gut and spit it into gold. So don’t get it twisted. I’m not bleeding, I’m breathing.

And if you’re down for the ride in rattling the rails of raw truth, then pull up a chair and keep up. But don’t think for a second I’m drowning – I’m just surfing the tide. A writer writes and tis the season.

Cheers to the ones who find themselves healing in their art, blanketed and bathed in the rainbow – all the while knowing it’s all about the journey to get to the end of it.

I’m Taking a Stand

When I stand up for myself, when I bare my scars and raise my voice, it’s not an attack, it’s a reckoning. And if you feel seen, exposed, dragged into the light, maybe it’s because deep down you know you’re not innocent.

Maybe you hoped I’d stay quiet, play dead, let your version of the story stand. But I’m not your punching bag, your pawn, your scapegoat – or the excuse for your failures.

I’m the storm you thought had passed. And I won’t shrink for your comfort.

“Don’t ever dim your shine because they cant take your light!” said somebody smarter than me.

I’m not going to twist truth into lullabies so liars can sleep better. If my words shake your world, it’s ‘cause your foundation was built on bullshit.

Funny how the guilty always think the shots are personal. I say someone lied, and the liar speaks up. I say some folks disappear when it gets hard, and the deserters get offended. I don’t drop names. I don’t have to.

The truth wears no uniform, but cowards still salute when it walks in the room. That’s how I know who’s who. If the shoe fits, it was probably stolen from someone else’s soul.

Truth is not polite. It doesn’t knock before it enters politely…it kicks the door in with muddy boots and blood on the knuckles. And when I speak it, raw and unfiltered, the ones with dirt on their hands get nervous. They flinch, shift in their chairs, start sweating through their clean little Sunday shirts.

Cause when I shoot straight talk, it’s not aimed—it’s reflected. If it stings, maybe that’s your guilt ringing the bell.

And I’ll wait…

I’m chill and I’ve been watching for a while. Waiting. Reading the room like I always have – quietly, cynically, and one middle finger away from changing everything.

But I feel good. I know I can be raw and unfiltered sometimes…it’s just because my hands are dirty from digging through yesterday’s ruins for something worth saving.

If the meaning of life is to give life meaning.. this is what I’m meaning to do.

So don’t confuse my truth telling for anger – it ain’t that. I’m cool and this peace was earned, earned hard from getting bruised up and left behind like an afterthought.

It is written “to thine own self be true.” And so it shall be done.

I’m not consulting the crystals on this one, though. Because I AM the damn prism. Try and break me and I shine in seven directions.

I am happy and my heart’s wide open, pulsing louder than doubt, pouring over like dawn after a year-long blackout.

I’ve learned that I don’t need anyone’s permission to be me. I’ve torn up the old contracts and I write this gospel in the Now.

I’ve learned that you’ve got to bet on yourself when no one else does.

Even though some of the closest people to me have actually worked against me, I AM the door kicked open.

Be true to yourself. Think for yourself. Have courage. That’s what I say.