The Inside Scoop on a Student Backpack

So, I love my backpacks. Like, really LOVE backpacks. Like, I owned up to 20 different backpacks at one time kind of love. But, there’s a reason for that, I’m not just creepy weird like that. I’ve been on campus over the last couple semesters just chilling  and I find myself observing students as they come and go to their classes (N’AA MEEN?). And that led me to this idea, that I may have mentally stumbled upon a probable backpack theory.” Now, hear me out, I’m not all-crazy. You know, you can tell a lot about a student by the backpack that they wear. There are four main aspects of the backpack that you can look into to potentially determine the character of that person. And I believe that these aspects are:
1. The appearance
2. The weight
3. The content
4. The arrangement

NUMBA ONE! Look at the backpack. Is it full of tears, holes, rips, and falling apart? Does it appear to be extremely dirty, soiled, or older than necessary? It might show you how that person might be “extra frugal” or even stingy with their money. They will use an item to its last dying thread, pun intended.It might also demonstrate that they don’t necessary care about others’ opinions when it comes to their closet. The backpack may also reveal inconsistencies within a person’s character. They might be indecisive. Or it could show the exact opposite, that they’re always on the move and in a hurry. Don’t take my word for it though, this is all just beautiful hypothetical mumbo jumbo talk coming from me.

HITTING DA DUECE! Look at the way the student walks with the backpack. If you can, touch it or pick it up. Does it feel extremely heavy? Is it uncomfortable? Does the person’s shoulders slump while wearing it? This may show you that person has a habit of doing too much at one time. Like trying to multitask everything but failing at life too much. They might rush into things, not considering all their options. They may suffer from insecurities concerning themselves and question their abilities to do certain things. It might also demonstrate someone who doesn’t let anything go until it is completely over. Or, maybe they just have their entire life planned out in five year intervals and that’s reflected by everything being in their backpack all at one time.

THREE’S A PARTY YA YA?! Watch the things a student pulls out of their bag. Is it important? Is it mostly snacks? Is it a bunch of textbooks? These things tell a lot about the psychology of that particular student. Too many textbooks and that person may be sacrificing social interaction for academics. Or they may be extremely introverted. All snacks and no books shows potential arrogance or overconfidence in personal ability, a potentially outgoing personality (if they’re willing to share said snacks), and a constant need for distractions. For me, I always had a giant bag of the Jumbo marshmallows in my backpack and the professors would get upset overtime I pulled them out and silently started passing them around. I mean, who doesn’t love marshmallows though? (Plus, they were like the size of a small child’s fist so yeah….marshmallow for the win.)

FOUR’S CROWDING?! See the arrangement of the backpack. Is everything just thrown in and haphazardly all over the place? Is it neat and ordered? Do they have a lot of stuff or is their backpack essentially empty? The arrangement can tell you a lot about someone and you don’t even have to ask them anything. I’ll demonstrate using myself for this.

I used to have a giant round, Pokeball backpack. (I’ve now replaced it with an even smaller backpack as I didn’t really get to use it much, but man was it nice though. Custom made that bag was *Yoda voice used here.*) Its appearance gives the impression that I’m someone who likes to stick out, trying to be unique or individualistic. It might come off as arrogant for some people and for most people it shows that I care somewhat for appearances and others’ opinion of what they see when they look at me. It may also demonstrate I have an unorthodox fashion sense.

The weight of my backpack is relatively light. It shows that I only carry what I need. There is no waste of space, giving me room to add things into the backpack as I go throughout my day. I can expand farther into the perspective my life. I do not own a lot of things and acquire things on an as-needed basis. When I no longer need something, I give it away to someone else who will have better use of it than I do.

Moving on to the contents of my backpack. As I’m no longer a student (graduated) I no longer carry any necessary textbooks. However, I carry a notebook and a sketchpad, my camera and its components, occasionally my tablet and iPod, and a reading book. This can show you that I’m someone who likes to be creative. I enjoy reading, drawing, photography, and poetry (when you open up my notebook). Because I carry these things with me all of the time whenever I leave my apartment, that can show that these creative spaces are important to me.

Last, but not least, the arrangement of the things within my backpack. I like neatness and order, and I reflect this fact in my backpack. Most people would say it’s excessive, but I arrange everything by size and color. I find it easy on the eyes and if I’m looking for a particular object and know the size and color, it’s an easy and quick find. When I can’t arrange them by color and size, I go with function. So lens are on one side, batteries on the other, cables and power chords in the middle kind-of-deal. Hence, you could assume I like to be in control of things happening to me in my life or at least able to map out any alternatives when something happens. Always prepared, I guess.

So, there you have it. Now you can sort of see the psychological implications that could be found within that ultra bright, hot pink, Hello-Kitty-with-the-ears-sticking-out-on-top, cute backpack you love stuntin’ around on campus with. Oooorrrrrr, maybe you just really like that backpack, no hard feelings either way. What do think of my backpack theory? Is it any good or just the mindless wandering of a brain as I walk around campus observing people around me? Let me know if I’m on to something, I love doing social experiments!



A Feverish Kind of Lesson

I’ve finally gathered the required strength to write this essay after almost dying. It’s been four weeks since my near death experience (sort of). You see, four weeks ago I had a fever. Now, most people would say, “What’s the big deal? It’s just a fever.” However, there’s more to it than just that. I didn’t just have a fever; I had a fever for a whole WEEK AND A HALF. And once I’ve explained and broken down the ordeal for you, you’ll understand the significance of it all. So, let us begin!

It all started on an insignificant Monday (the 15th of December) when I woke up in a pool of sweat. Now, at the time the weather was freezing cold and I was under some thick blankets so I figured it was just the blankets doing their job of keeping me warm, extra well. Seeing as how I wasn’t experiencing any other symptoms I went straight to work and had a normal workday. This “waterbed” effect I experienced was also seen on Tuesday and Wednesday.

Thursday, I woke up with a headache so I took 200mg of Advil (one pill). The headache came back around 8:15pm so I took 200mg more. Keep in mind I thought nothing at all of any chance of being sick or feverish. I hanged out with some friends and then went to bed. I woke up the next morning with sweat everywhere again. Now, you’re probably wondering, “If this guy is consistently waking up in a small body of water why didn’t he check to see if he was sick?” and my answer is simply because the entire week was freezing cold and I slept under really thick blankets that I thought were supposed to make sure you stayed warm, even if you ended up in a sweat. The weather was conveniently helping my fever along without my knowledge, basically.

Now, Friday was when everything got crucial. I woke up around 12:45pm, took 400mg of Advil (two pills now) for a headache that I woke up with (didn’t think anything strange about it, shame on me). Then I went off straight to work. I worked the entire day with no problems until exactly 10:00pm. I was talking to my coworker Gary when suddenly I was approached by Death, like seriously. You know in a supernatural movie or an anime when everything gets suddenly cold, you just start freezing and shaking all over, you see ice appearing everywhere plus your breath in the air, and you hear Death coming because of the chains rattling to murder everyone in the room? Yeah, it got real like that. So I’m standing there shivering like I’m naked in the middle of the Alaskan tundra and Gary’s looking at me like, “Dude, it’s not that cold in here,” and I’m looking at him all crazy like, “Dude, you’re not cold?! It’s freezing in here.” Then I clocked out and went home.

I walk through the door and I’m still shivering like a banshee so one of my roommates decides to check my temperature as a just-in-case-your-sick measure. That’s when the truth slapped me in the face and dropped a piano on me. I was sick, and sick BAD. Temperature clocked in at 104.3. Now, no disrespect to her, but she started FREAKING OUT. She’s all like, “Hospital this, ER that, doctors here, medical bills there,” and I’m just lying on the couch like, “Nah, I’m good. I don’t have medical insurance. I’ll just ice myself and sleep it off.” Ah yes, the beauty of uninsured mindsets. Friday night turned out to be a long night. Here’s my temperature order of the night: 104.3, 104.7, 104.3, 104.1, 103.4, 101.3, and 97.7 by 8am.

My roommate Joseph is calling into work letting them know that I can’t come due to my fever and their reply was I had to come in anyway. (Now this is a sad story but I’m not going to go into it now.) So I go into work at 2pm with a 101.4 fever and clock out at 101.6. As if working wasn’t bad enough I once again spent the entire night dying at a consistent 104.7, as if my brain cells needed to be fried any more than they usually are. After that, I was all “Screw work, I need a doctor” and didn’t go in on Sunday. The result? The fever broke.

Now, the whole point of this story is to get to this. Get health insurance. For real, guys. I’m serious about this. Now, I’m not a big fan of giving away my hard earned money unless it’s a worthy reason and I’ve never seen health insurance as one of them. Why, you ask? It’s not something that I see myself using every day. I don’t get sick often, and when I do, it’s usually nothing serious. So why give money to people to get something you rarely use? So that when the Big One hits you and you have to rush to the emergency room in an ambulance and the doctor goes in to save you, you’re not left scratching your head and crying trying to figure where in the world you’re going to acquire the 15 to 20,000 dollars needed to pay for the sirens and beeping machines.

So go out and get one. Even if it’s the cheapest insurance on the market at 5 cents a day, get it. It still counts, and having insurance pay a little bit of the bill is a lot better than having no one there to pay for any of it. And that, my friends, was my feverish lesson for the day.



It’s a Fall(ing) Kind of Season

Fall is here, oh my God, Fall is finally here!
The most wonderful time of the year!
The “It’s getting kind of crispy these days, I should go buy a jacket” kind of season
The time of beautiful scarves, fashionable overcoats, cute adorable boots, and hopefully cheerful memories kind of season

This is the “Where did the summer go, everyone has fallen in love” kind of season
The “Let’s go back to the first day of summer” kind of season
The “Before I met you and fell in love” kind of season
Where life was simpler without you and your smiles kind of season
The days of the weekend warriors and international travelling solo kind of season

This is the “Baby it’s cold outside so let’s cuddle together under these comfy warm blankets” kind of season
The “I like you but I love you more” kind of season, the “I love you but I’m not in love with you” kind of season
The “let’s make legitimate love and maybe even have some beautiful illegitimate children together” kind of season
The “I like my coffee black and kisses lipstick rosy red” kind of season

This is the “I want to tell her how I feel but I’m tongue-tied” kind of season
The “I want to say she’s beautiful but I can’t express it in words” kind of season
The “I can’t get her out of my head, she’s been buzzing around all day up there” kind of season
The “I want to be the Pooh bear that gets to enjoy all of her golden brown locks of honey” kind of season

This is the “What the hell am I thinking, this feeling ain’t logical” kind of season
The “Love is going to break me, burn me up, and push me down” kind of season
The “I’ve got to pick myself up, brush myself off, and walk proud into the New Year” kind of season
The “White winter wonderland full of snow on the floor and frost in the air but hopefully not in her heart” kind of season

This is the “First we were talking, then we were touching each other” kind of season
The “we kiss, we fight, we fuck, we repeat again” kind of season
The “She’s going to wrap your heart up in her cellophane, lock it up within her key box, and play with the shadows within your mind” kind of season
The “She split my wig and my brain with her thighs but ate the heart out of my chest” kind of season
Where the fighting is absolutely awful but the sex is fucking fantastic kind of season

This is the “I want to hold you tight so why don’t you come over” kind of season
The “I hate to watch you go but I love you watch you leave” kind of season
The “We were lovers 24 hours ago but now we’re just really good friends” kind of season
The “Someone replaced me overnight” kind of season
The “They held my heart in their hand and felt the pulses resonate with theirs before quietly returning it to me” kind of season
The “I think I actually love her” with starry eyes and arrow stricken knees kind of season

This is the fall season, the time of wild young hearts and blazing blue lipped souls
The “I met you in the summer, loved you now, and your gone in the spring” kind of season
The “I wish I could unattach your heart from mine but I can’t” kind of season
The “I guess I’ll just have to wait until we meet again” kind of season
The “She’s gone now but not forever, she’ll be back same time next year” kind of season
The “I think I would actually cut off my afro if she asked me to because I love her so much” kind of season
This is the time of brightly colored beanies, bedazzling colored earmuffs, warm breaths within hand covered mittens, and hopefully cheerful memories kind of season


The Beauty of Second Chances

Three years ago, on this very day, I died.

I died in a car accident when I lost control of my father’s Jeep Cherokee on Florida Highway 441 on a Wednesday night after dozing behind the wheel and rolling the SUV six times across three lanes of traffic and the dip serving for a median before coming to rest in the grass facing northbound. But before we cover the you’re-totally-dead part of all this, lets recap that day.

It’s December 07th, 2011. I am a 3rd year student at the University of Florida and taking 18 credits at the time. I am also a Cadet Airman in the UF Air Force ROTC program. To throw more firewood to this fire, I am involved in thirteen student organizations (faithfully I might add) and also had been performing spoken word poetry as an independent artist within Gainesville and on the UF campus since October. (This information is very important, trust me.) At 7am this morning I had just completed some strenuous and grueling physical exercises for my ROTC training and had an 8:30am class, hence no breakfast, no sleep for me.

Fast Forward.

It is now 5:30pm. I am finished with afternoon ROTC exercises; I have just turned in my final English paper exam for the semester and am now turning in my ROTC uniforms for the break. Mrs. Nobles tells me to be careful and I reply to her that I will. I say goodbye to a fellow cadet (Cadet Mulvihill, who’s totally awesome by the way) that I bump into while I’m leaving her office and we exchange information to keep in touch. I’m feeling quite exhausted, and as I’m walking down the stairs I remember considering taking at least an hour nap before I head out to go see my brother because I feel burned out. I decided against it, reasoning with myself that his surgery was between 8 and 8:30pm and I still had to go pack up my stuff and beat the clock to the hour and a half drive back home. Plus, Airmen don’t quit working; no matter how tired they might feel.

(Sidenote time. I hadn’t slept in days. I had been writing four final exam papers (English major, guys) and been running around from meeting to meeting wrapping up the semester strong in all the various organizations. My little brother had just been in an accident two months prior and was going into surgery later in the night for his leg. I had jokingly promised him I’d be there to hold his hand through the surgery. End sidenote.)

After leaving the ROTC detachment, I threw all my stuff in my car to go home and noticed I had little to no gas. I called up my good friend Jonathan and asked him to borrow $10 to at least better my odds of making the trip to Ocala from Gainesville. What makes this later “blood money” so ironic is the statement I made before I left Gainesville where I stated, “I would rather be in a car accident to justify not being able to make it to my brother’s surgery than break down on the side of the road.” Those words still haunt me to this day.

Now, we get to the car trip.

It’s about 7:30pm. I’m heading southbound on US Highway 441 towards Ocala. It’s dark and it’s extremely cold (I think it was in the mid 40s to low 50s that night, if not lower). I’m wearing a black t-shirt (silly me) and my orange University of Florida sweatpants (they’re extremely comfortable). I’m listening to my iPod and the song that comes on just before everything goes nuts was “Shot for Me” by Drake. I must have dozed when it started because next thing I know, I’m trying to pull the SUV out of the grass in the median and back onto the road. Unfortunately, the steering wheel locks up and the Jeep starts to drift and I look into the other lanes only to see a woman coming with a child in her car in the oncoming lanes. They were close enough for me to see and recognize and I remember stating, “ I really hope I don’t hit that woman’s car with that boy in it.” Those were to be the last words out of my mouth.

Now there’s a moment just before the first verse ends and Drake’s hook begins where the drumbeats drops in. It’s at that EXACT moment that the SUV loses itself and starts rolling. So all I’m hearing is “Take a shot for me” and I’m sitting there thinking, “No, I don’t want to take this particular shot with my life right now.” I cover my face with my arms just as the windshield explodes, spewing glass shards all over me and lacerating my left arm.

You know how they say your life flashes before your eyes when you’re dying?

That depends on how fast you’re dying.

It didn’t happen for me. Everything was too sudden. The compressing of the vehicle’s metal frame with every roll, the pokes here and there from who knows what into my body, everything. I’m going to end the story there to keep this short so you’re going to have to ask me for the rest of it (trust me, it only gets crazier and funnier from here) but as I sit here typing this story up for you to read, it really does get me thinking about how I will be forever grateful that God himself gave me a second chance. People ultimately just don’t walk away from a vehicle rolling six times with only minor cuts and bruises and a severe case of whiplash.

On December 07th 2011 around 8pm, I died in a car accident. I performed a spoken word piece in front of 2,000+ people at a TED conference in February of 2012. I would bump into a girl who would change my life walking to the bus stop from a class that March. The girl who I bumped into would become my girlfriend on December 07th 2012, literally a year to the date. It truly does astound me how none of this (or any of the other things that happened throughout the following years) would ever have happened had I gone out with the Jeep. So I guess I’ll end with this. Life really is just all about timing. So cherish every moment that you have and get, prioritize the things that matter to you, and take the chances that will enhance the quality of your life, not risk it.

And with that, I’m done. Live, Laugh, Love. I love you all.


America is Not for Black People

Who taught you to hate the texture of your hair? America taught me
Who taught you to hate the color of your skin? America taught me
Who taught you to bleach, to get like the white man? America taught me
Who taught you to hate the shape of your nose, the shape of your lips? America taught me
Who taught you to hate yourself from the top of your head to the soles of your feet? America taught me
Who taught you to hate your own kind? America taught me
Who taught you to hate the race that you belong to so much that you don’t want to be around each other? America taught me
Who taught you to hate being what God himself made you? America taught me

My town is a town where actions speak louder than words
Where guns scream more than the victim does
Where blood splashes on the gravel floor as much as water flows from its metallic faucet
Where a body can drop faster at the drop of a hat than justice’s gavel can

My town is a town where White men are acquitted over the bodies of buried Black boys
Their bodies serving as reminders to the strange fruit that once littered the South for the crows to pluck, the rain to gather, the wind to suck
Bodies that are taught the skills to always hide before they can ever seek
My town is a town where little Black boys know the smell of gun powder, the sound of church bells, and the sticky sensation of blood long before they know the warmth of a loving family

My town is a town where the cops don’t care and the victims don’t matter
Where the most disrespected and unprotected woman is the Black woman
My town is a town where the Black woman is neglected along with her children
Left unrespected and unprotected to be objectively chopped up and served like the beef of a cattle before the howling, hungry hands of the White and Black man alike

So, let’s play the blame game but in this game there is no one left to blame
For we already know the answer to the question when there is in fact no question left to be asked
Only statistics and figures to an observable fact and that fact is that America is not home for minorities
That it represents liberty as a beacon of light for immigrants with a statue but that’s all that she is…a statue

Who taught you to be a bad bitch for a nigga? America taught me
Who taught you to accept white washing your history from Eurocentrism? America taught me
Who taught you to be feared and fetishized at the same time? America taught me
Who taught you to hate your body and corrupt your mind, to disregard the soul? America taught me
Wow! Oh my, we’ve taken all this shit to another level!
My God! America has taught you well, America has taught you well



Everybody’s a N—

What would you like to purchase today? We have all kinds of n—– for sale!

We have short n—s, tall n—s, thin n—s, heavy n—s
Broke n—s, n—s trying to get rich, n—s on the grind, hustling n—s, hood n—s, pimp n—s, and thug n—s
We also have quite a few bleeding out and even dead n— too!

Hold up! I’ll even switch it up for you! We have n—s from afar!
We have Asian n—s, real African motherland n—s, Hispanic n—s, Island n—s, and even the rare imaginary white n— too!

Would you like them bundled according to color? We can do that as well for a small fee of course!
We have our lovely team Light-Skinned n—s package, the not so friendly team Dark-Skinned n—s package, shit we even created an exclusive Native American and Aborigine combo pack!

Oh, I’m sorry sir, you wanted female n—s? Why didn’t you say so?! I’ve got you there as well!
We’ve got the ravishing Red-bone, the exotic and sexually yummy Yellow-bone, and the Bad Bi-Racial Bitch for your selection
If you want you can also take a look at some of our high selling female n—s such as Diabolical Dirty Diva, the Suck and Swallow Slut, the Freaky Friday Fuck, and the Promiscuous Pussy Princess as well

Please, please, do take your time, kind sir. Your satisfaction is of the utmost importance to us!
Ah I see, you want something expensive
Would you like an unusual, classy, shop till you drop, diamond ring and Maybach music playing from her untouched vagina, I’m too good for any bullshit unless it’s Dolce and Gabana, strong, independent and black female n—?

Oh that’s too steep of a price? I seemed to have misread you. Wait, what’s that? You want something extremely cheap?
Well we do have a nice selection over here in our vending machine as well for your convenience
Now keep in mind these n—s are cheaper but they’re also way more entertaining
Ghetto n—s and their counterpart hood-rat female n—s, Gun-slinging gang n—s with 9mms complete with police officers as well, arrested and handcuffed n—s, going to court and being sentenced n—s, guilty and locked up n—s, and even some buried with the flower n—s are all in the vending machine for $1.25
Oh? Not today? That’s fine. Thank you and please do come again!

WHAT’S UP MY N—s?!……..I SAID, WHAT’S GOOD MY N—s?! That was a trick question
Everyone wants to be a “n—” but no one wants to be a Negro
Everyone wants to ball hard and shoot in the gym but no one wants to practice
Everyone wants Bugattis and high priced champagne but no one wants to work their ass off
Everyone wants to be the free floating, 25 sitting on 25 mil, rich with my crooked smile n—, but God forbid if they should have to be black too

No one wants to be an actual “n—”, a slave n—r, or a Negro
No one wants to wake up in the shadows terrified to walk out into the sunlight afraid of their own dark ebony skin
No one wants to be the person that walks around petrifying white women into pillars of salt with their Sodom and Gomorrah filled frames of Medusa-induced melanin within the pores of their skin
No one wants to be the monster of every woman’s rape nightmare, the scare of every father’s house break-in, and the target of every police sergeant’s justice enforced issued pistol
No one wants to be a Negro shackled and burdened under an institutionalized racism, locked up in a revolving door of an industrial prison complex; forever to look up through barred ceilings at a sky that he knows is not his
No one wants to be a Negro but everyone wants to be a “n—”

No one wants to be the Negro living in the projects of Section 8 housing
Struggling to find legal ways to cover the cost of your average living wage against the insufficiencies of your minimum wage paycheck
Where the y-intercept of any gangster lean multiplied by the greed of money divided by the number of arrests equals the number of cocaine bricks being slung around in a duffel bag subtracted by an extensive criminal record adding to the number of years behind a maximum security prison sentence

You will never see a drive safely sign on the side of the road for a black child
They are not hit by unmindful cars for they are too busy being slaughtered by unmerciful guns
Struggling to survive in an urban war where every bullet is another check mark towards the genocide of black children within this country
You will not see black people portrayed as lawyers within Hollywood for America is already too accustomed to seeing them as convicts
Ready to be sentenced to life imprisonment with every syllable that squeaks out of the judge’s self righteous mouth

When did it become okay for black citizens to refer to each other as white property?
How many centuries of shackles around necks, wrists, and ankles did it take to burden the spirits of African-American people away from the potential of true enlightenment?
How many verses of easy women and fast money, derogatory movies, and white washed school books have to be filtered into the invisible backpacks within the minds of possible Douglas’s, Malcolm’s, and Dubois’s before acceptance into post-racist and colorblind thought?
Just when did it become okay for kings and queens to refer to each other as slaves?

Everyone wants to be a “n—” but no one wants to be a Negro
Everyone wants to be “black” while keeping their status of power and privilege intact
Everyone wants to be a Kendrick Lamar and a Michael Jordan, shining in the lights without the fear of being followed in the camera
Everyone wants to be the free floating, 25 sitting on 25 mil, rich with my crooked smile n—, but God forbid if they should have to be black too


No Poetry Here

The man that stands so confidently before you is not a poet
The words spoken into this microphone is not poetry
This piece is not poetic nor are the doings in his life a literary romance
Even though his words can draw laughter from the audience through his holistic humor and comedy
His eyes speak silent stories of tragedies untold unto the masses
My friend, this is not poetry
I do not aim to be poetic
This is the call out for understanding, an echo for empathy
It is the droves of human souls moving about collectively as a single life force
Searching for a true unifying factor between us all
This is the battle cry in the midst of a losing battle and lost war, an analytical overview of a dead philosopher’s unheard thoughts
My friend, this is not poetry, these lines are not poetic

Poverty is not poetry
It is the tearing of heartstrings against muscle as the heart beats against the flow of time
The blood rushing through the mental wounds in an escape from eternal idleness in the hopes that one day it can find success for the frail body it wishes to keep alive
It is not poetic when she is sitting in the recluse of darkness within her room
All light extinguished against her walls and within her soul sunken and swollen with sadness eyes
When her razor blade cannot penetrate deep enough under her skin to remove the burning itch of her pain
Her veins full of the venom pumped into her from the stares of judgmental accusers
Amidst the anguish of the eternal nightmare within her average day
States of being where she begs for the executioner within her mind to erase her existence from the memory of the world as ruthless as her fellow students do within the chambers of the classroom

Homelessness is not poetry
Homelessness is not just a physical condition but also a mental state of mind
It is the aching in the heart when each pulse of that fist sized muscle puts one farther away from one’s self
The ribs cracked open to reveal the bruises behind on it clamped shut back together hurriedly like the clanging of metal bars against a steel cage frame in a skeletal prison
It is the sigh in every breath, the dropping of the head, the clenching of fists and the shuffling of feet when prayer has failed to effectively answer the call for help
It is not poetic when depression is your best friend
Your shadows silently sliding ahead of you like spectral sentries guarding your soul against any hopeful breakthroughs
When your grayscale outlook of life contrasts with everyone’s rose-colored statements as to your health
A decent day being the victory after an agonizing struggle against the formidable hold of your sheets enclosed against your ribs
With every sunken form in the mattress serving as a potential suicide note left behind of the person who slept there

We’ve all got 99 problems and being in a society run by money is one of them
And if money is the root of all evil then our loss of humanity can only serve as its tree
So know here that life is not all unicorns and rainbows, it is not a Disney movie or a child’s fairy tale
It is the grit, gristle, and grime of hardship, the screeching of car tires against an icy and slippery road just before a crash, the taste of blood in one’s slack-jawed mouth after a blindsided punch
My friend, life is not poetry at all
Do not get lost in the ballads of her lips, the instrumentals within her voice
Do not error yourself along life’s imaginary music sheets
My friend, know this
Life is not poetic…
…and I am no poet