Waking Up A Problem
I guess that’s part of the new year.
Feeling sick, caused by people you’ve hurt who seize opportunities to return the stress
Heartache. Gut-wrenching.
Body seizing. Exhausting. Headache flu.
Shit that makes you feel like your life is a dump.
How many times have you went to bed writhing from problems your ego enjoys.
Screwing yourself is almost as fun as others.
The fun lies in the mind and hand of the holder.
Then you wake up tilted.
Like a man on edge.
Closing in on destruction.
Holding onto redemption.
ENDGAME
How can I help? How can I be of service?
Who talks like that?
In the modern world, depending on your mood, that phrase makes you feel like a target. It is the language of people who know how to play and break the rules. When you see the players getting gamed, everyone seems ridiculously annoying. Like the ones who are trained to and live to value the time and lives of bosses and shareholders more than the blood in their own veins. The words arrive with rehearsed voices and smiles.
But there is another version of those words. It belongs to a father.
A father knows lives are being held together by the love, knowledge, wisdom, and honesty he chooses to share, or chooses to withhold. Words are not filler. They decide futures. They decide damage. For him, service is a life-and-death responsibility. It shows up in how he pauses before answering, how he chooses silence instead of convenient conflict.
The new year arrived not with celebration, but with a rupture. One of the worst days in a family’s life. There was no explosion, except internally, as he was let go from a place in the trenches of human suffering that had long ago burned his spirit to a crisp. No misconduct. The door was left open, with the suggestion that he would be welcomed back if he improved how he played the game. Polite words to dull the pain of dismissal.
The timing mattered. A daughter was home from college for the break. This was supposed to be a season of joy, not the burden of familial and financial collapse. He tried to gather himself, to find a way to reveal the loss without poisoning the holiday. This wasn’t denial. This was restraint.
When the truth finally surfaced, sympathy did not arrive with it. Instead, rumors of unethical behavior spread the way smoke does, the way STDs do.
In the world of addiction counseling, the pattern is familiar. Truth is measured by what remains. Damage is hidden just long enough to finish the day. Protect the mood. Move on as if nothing happened. That’s how things survive longer than they should.
And fucking addicts run the world like drugs themselves. Their makers and suppliers withhold truth to hide true effects, and ruin the high.
But sometimes the high ends.
Sometimes being cut loose exposes the thinking that kept a man stuck. The loops of justification and quiet bargains made with exhaustion and identity. The same patterns taught to addicts who confuse endurance with strength and familiarity with purpose.
The firing didn’t destroy him.
It interrupted him.
It forced a reckoning with a way of living that no longer worked, a way of serving that had started to look like self-erasure. In the break, the spark returned.
This is how the game ends. And how the fun begins.
Infatuated with False-Lore
Arf from Pinterest
Infatuated with false-lore. What more does a family man want, besides wholesome kids, and a bitch with a succulent apple bottom, so a piece, a handful, or a simple look always makes him feel full. A place to plant his seed, more than just to make him feel needed.
A woman with good head, and a mind for his business, not just to see how much she can benefit.
Infatuated by false-lore. When is a family satisfied without more? Who raises them that way? A demanding father who won’t settle for less, or a mother who calls that neglect. Says she just needs you, but talks news of men with better lives and bodies she fantasizes were you.
Handle it calm and your weak. Get mad and your insecure with feminine tendencies.
Men already have a-lot of parts to work under their hood.
If a woman only offers junk parts, doubt and contempt as love, run away while you can before you stall and become stuck as the man neither of you ever wanted.
Break you off
Pay me by letting me in. Your club is dark and warm, jumping just enough to keep me coming. Since it's Friday and I’m paying, tonight let those bright eyes lead the way.
Put it on you like perfume. Let my scent stick so my territory is marked.
Roll you out of those jeans after you get hot and mouthy from our intoxicating spark… Then hit the favorite spots.
Let's go rounds like a record, like that ass from every angle.
I have plenty to spend to break you off.
The War You’ve Been Fighting Alone
They say the mind is a battlefield, but most people don’t believe it because they aren’t seeing bullets or bodies. No shrieks to warn them off regret. No sudden realization that they might die alone, far from family, whispering a last hope for one more last chance. Thinking, maybe a wind’s chilling howl will carry their memory home.
That’s the easy death.
Doubt is the one we think we’re too hard and strong for. Especially when we’re giving advice, or talking ourselves up to people beneath us, chest out after a good fuck like nothing can touch us.
New Culture Vultures
All these Black leaders and influencers saying they’re doing it for the culture while pricing us out of it.
Fetish-it
Lips so soft,
my dick wants a French kiss.
Feet so pretty,
I wanna fuck and suck them like titties.
I see that ass
and want to pump like a pogo stick.
Pussy is like dewy fruit,
fresh like a happy morning.
I rise.
Her wetness glistens
for a sparkling warm entrance.
She grips and holds
until the magnificent heartfelt lesson unfolds —
layers open
the deeper we go.
An invitation to explore the body’s mind,
its rhythmic learning
gives the grade —
fail
or deserving
to visit her outer limits.
QUIET STORM
When the past comes to haunt you,
it doesn’t knock, it moves in.
It watches you grind,
it studies your growth,
and it waits for the cracks that still remember yesterday.
You try to rise, to do better.
But people stand back with clean hands,
offering distant support so they don’t get dragged and dirty if you fail.
Your pussy ain’t fucking, your wife with the pretty lips ain’t fucking, and you wonder why they call you handsome, but you don’t look in the mirror after you take your hand and get you some.
Growth gets ugly.
Healing gets lonely.
But the quiet storm?
That’s where real men are forged.
HIGH POWERED
Being High on Emotion Is a Dangerous Drug
It blinds you to your own reflection.
You only see the parts that prove you right.
I can always find a reason, a defense, a story that makes me look justified.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not wrong, or that I didn’t build this consequence with my own hands.
When you’re high-powered on emotion, you take a simple truth and beat it with doubts and old memories until it becomes the chaos you imagined.
If you think you’re always right,
if you keep falling back into those same defense tactics you learned as a kid when you felt ambushed or alone,
you’ll always be the wrong man for the moment your life could finally go right.
Emotional control isn’t about being numb.
It’s about being honest enough to pause before you burn down the bridge that was meant to save you.
Learn the 3 Stripes
(Yes… stripes, not strikes. At a certain time in my life, me and my brothers only wore Adidas.)
1. Pause Before You Swing
When emotion hits, the instinct is to fight.
You start reaching for old weapons: pride, silence, sharp words.
But pause.
Breathe before you justify.
Ask yourself: “Am I protecting my peace, or just my pride?”
That one breath can turn a breakdown into a breakthrough.
2. Call It What It Is
Don’t hide behind anger when it’s really hurt.
Don’t call it discipline when it’s really fear.
Say what you feel, not who you blame.
That’s how you keep control of your story instead of letting your story control you.
Power starts where honesty begins.
3. Own the Fire
Every man faces fire.
Most run from it.
But the right man stands still long enough to understand it.
Control isn’t about taming emotion; it’s about mastering your response when it hits.
Stillness isn’t softness, it’s strategy.
The man who stays calm when chaos calls the loudest is the one who wins.
Wood Morning-Coffee, Hard starts & Soft Lips
Oh.
Today.
There’s a lot to do.
Woke up with a headache,
caffeine for my manhood will take away the pain.
Warmth from a pair of my ladies’ soft lips
and I’ll be ready to conquer.
Go think in the shower.
Calculate the day.
Strategies for the mind-
legs over shoulder
or baby bend over.
Either way, the grip makes me her whore
and my flow wins her over,
every way I want her.
All I Need to get By
All I want is laughter and love.
Too many lips lure you to believe lies. Leads too many to trust people who profit when you're lost.
Take your time serious, or anger will tick you off until you explode.
Let's talk about it before the wrong thoughts and emotions are let off and we get hooked on the life we don’t want.
Lust feels like luxury, but love and laughter feel like home, and that's where the good life lives.
Can’t Be Still
I been down so long I can’t be still.
Moving towards an ascent. Money, a woman’s switch, better books, environment, and food for health. I need to feel them between my fingers.
My eyes dart. My heart races. Shuffling through people frozen in circles of better tomorrows because their high vacates today’s sorrows.
I ain’t with running in place. I know mine and it’s at the table with the most high. Surrounded by the grace pumping from my heart. I’m at the point where suffering is an afterthought.
I put family first. To make me a shooting star, moving without fizzle. I am the light of my family’s will.
Cut Your Losses
I talk to God every day.
The only one who doesn’t think I’m tripping.
Just warns me, nudges me to learn my lesson.
I look at my family, armor on,
unsure which dad is walking through the door.
Ready for war over disagreements.
I don’t want our bond to die,
so I let a lot slide.
But when they treat me like an easy target,
I let loose. Attitudes mowed down with honesty.
The type that hurts,
makes them treat a man like he’s x’d
of the lives he raised and gave strength.
It’s hard to understand how love grows so intense
it makes people want to stick together
through storms that tear whole worlds apart.
And still, temptation finds a way in.
Sliding quiet, birthing an end,
digging new graves where trust once bloomed.
For the one who pulled your weeds,
helped root a future in strong, healthy,
mental and physical beliefs.
Even when emotions shifted like seasons,
love always returned to provide.
But now you’re the drought.
Watering a different crop.
And with every drop
on different lips, new pillows, new sheets,
cries from dreams ruined
the evidence of us,
our memories, our soil, is left to dry out and die.
Closer Than You Think.
Whatever you can’t tell your spouse or partner, you’re using to create a graveyard of bodies to seduce away boredom and fuck up your life like you were young.
Always beating them to the room where your phone is. Keeping it close to your chest and hidden like a heartbeat.
Only excitement can calm. Firing the synapses of temptation like lust is a new drug she can’t stop blowing and penetrating.
A man always sees. Quietly strategizing an end without decimating his family, similar to a landmine.
Destruction is closer than cheaters think.
Al Bundy
I thought about Carl Thomas, singing how “I wish I never met her at all,” as I sat heartbroken from a brief disagreement in the middle of a wonderful family moment. Wifey was delighted to be there with the children but looked at me like I was aggravation intruding.
I can choke on water and feel embarrassed instead of feeling a consoling hand on my back. That makes a man want to act dead wrong. And now she’s the only one in my corner since my mother and grandmothers are gone.
The Rough-House Gospel
Image from Pinterest EL BARRIO ESTÁ CALIENTE - @ALAMAYY
Some days, lately, feels like there’s too much to forgive. I’ve been a blues man since happiness died in that first drive-by. Thirteen turned both lucky and unhinged from reality, where ghetto youth become God’s children.
It had to be written. I know that day it was. We all believed. We could make it out. Cheered on and distracted by girls who played with ballers that didn’t bounce. They stood tall. Shrunk when the ground helped them rest. Left their girls weary, struggling to live with less. Sons lost without men with discipline.
Moms would rather disappear than look at you and see a distorted resemblance of him through ugly tears.
The school that made boys into men was the rough-house. Nana made you fight fair and square, then fed you both because angry men healed through food, love, and care. She warned to wear a condom when you needed to be tamed by more. And lived by a respectful woman's code. Flesh makes men weak, so make sure your main woman ain't allowing the world sneak peaks.
Grandpops chimed in with “young pups don’t need a litter slowing down their run.”
Couldn’t help thinking he was talking about us. Grandchildren he raised, while his own were running to be put down from their plague of addiction
Wounds healed slow. Tended with pours that stung. Made you official when you could handle an elder’s sacred life water.
I saw angels those days. Spirits with faces of love, peace, and danger. Every one of them for me. When you live a certain way, you try to manifest joy and feel pain.
That’s when I saw how my scripture was written unless I changed my story.
Verses of Love
Art from Pinterest
I went to a family concert and nearly cried the whole time. Sang the songs of an artist my children enjoyed their entire life, particularly my 18-year-old son. I felt the holes a father couldn’t fill as the stranger’s words made them feel at home.
I wondered if they believed I did the right things. If they understood the love, I worked to give. Or if they focus on disappointment when my sacrifices didn’t deliver and make every day feel like Christmas.
I kept my eyes closed to drown myself in the moment. They go fast as life carries on, with a flood of distractions, and a father’s needs are the heaviest ones.
Listening to the voice that remains precious to my young, his words express peace, love, fairness, equality, and action. Blacks and Irish have always had an interesting brotherhood. I never imagined Hozier would take me to church, make me feel I needed to do more, be more, and know more about my children.
I thought I preferred, or at least didn’t mind being alone, until I realized I was making my love unknown.
The Don of America’s Hood
Yeah boy…
The second turning started in 2024. When the world pretended it didn’t know what was in store. He was resurrected like the necromancer. A tyrant let loose for glutton, spreading madness and decay like a diseased king.
He thinks life’s only worth nuttin on bitches and money.
His good ol’ boys thought life was easy pickings. Didn’t realize they were getting buttered as the main dish. They lined up and voted for the slaughter. Masked up to eliminate veterans and grandparents. Some were the OG’s whose organizations built this country from blood and labored love.
The simple plan for a wannabe master. MAGA is code for MerikAs Ghetto bAstards.
Every day he tells the world to open up, or get on their knees for another slob with less power. He takes chances with your money and life. Feels he is worth more. Knows he’s above the law and dares you to prove him wrong.
He fabricates news and crimes. That’s how he keeps times hard. In his sick mind, he’s the world’s kingpin pimp. Gaming the world to be his main bitch. That’s how he Maxxxed out Epstein like his favorite young virgins.
The simple 'plan for a wannabe master. MAGA is code for MerikAs Ghetto bAstards.
Inspired by Compton's Most Wanted - Growing Up In The Hood (Boyz N The Hood Soundtrack)