What I think about


I created this prison
With concrete grudges
and guards that don’t sleep
Confined behind bars
that only exist in my mind

I’ve taken cases for crimes I didn’t commit
And, nowadays, I don’t commit at all
I’d rather be safe than in love again
Put my faith in drugs again, knowing
It solves and creates problems
Just like this bottle
Sipping loopholes like hot coffee

I’m doing the best I can
But these cans are stacking up
Like Egyptian pyramids, making everyone wonder
How the fuck they even got there

What I think about

A/C Units in Hell

Humans only learn lessons through pain
Proven, again and again
Light bulbs go off in the darkest moments
And, right now,
We live in rooms lit dimly enough
To barely make out faces we don’t wanna see

Hell used to be hot
Until re-discoverers and governments
Shoved shit-loads of A/C units down here
Pacified in a prison of programming
Regularly scheduled lies told good enough
to sleep at night

6-8 hours of freedoms we hardly recall
Sometimes I wanna stay sleep
But my body won’t let me
This box beats without me
Hips hop to work and fingers type away
As my mind thinks of ways to cope
In this cool place called hell

What I think about

Daddy’s Little Girl


The phrase “daddy’s little girl” didn’t register internally until I was 5 feet away from my ex-girlfriend’s vagina, staring at hair that wasn’t hers. I was inside of a hospital room sitting down, listening to sounds of support from a few family and friends as my daughter nearly gave me a panic attack from not coming into the world on time.

Although it sounded like the doctor was saying “cornea”, the correct medical term was Meconium, which basically meant that my greedy ass offspring was eating the fluid and feces that would normally be stored in her intestines. The doctor made a decision to kick everyone out and proceed with a C-section in order to safely bring my child into this world. There could only be one person in the surgery room; it was either going to be me or her mom.

After a few seconds of staring at each other, the look on my face clearly saying, “Bitch you better not deny me the privilege of seeing my daughter’s birth,” the doctor promptly escorted Ms. Holmes to the waiting area.

No more than 3 minutes later, I was dressed in all blue scrubs with a light blue shower cap looking like I could’ve starred in the next episode of HOUSE. My mom snapped a quick picture of my sister and a nervous version of myself before I went to perform surgery.


The operating table was divided so that I was unable to see what was going on below her shoulders. Now, of course I was way too curious, so I snapped a few pictures of the gory procedure.

“Are you ok?” I asked her.

She just stared at me, clearly showing she had never been this high before. She slurred her words and mumbled something that I couldn’t understand but I nodded in agreement, doing my best to be calm and supportive. At one point, I thought about pulling up YouTube to play Salt-N-Peppa’s “Push It” but decided against it considering she couldn’t really feel anything and there was no need to push.

At this point, the doctors were extracting my daughter and asked if I wanted to see. Abso-fucking-lutely, I thought. This was that beautiful moment that everyone talked about; the moment that alters a man’s DNA and causes him to fully understand the word ‘beautiful’ on a deeper level.

That shit was a lie. It wasn’t beautiful at all. My daughter looked like some shit off a Sci-Fi movie and I instantly became confused and nauseous. For some reason, I imagined my daughter birth to be seven pounds, fourteen ounces of pure gold floating out of her mom’s stomach, possibly winking at me as if to say, “Hey Dad.” Unfortunately, that was not the case. It seemed like I witnessed a murder with my daughter covered in blood, still attached to her mom’s stomach.

“Would you like to cut the umbilical cord, Dad?” The doctor asked.

I couldn’t respond verbally. The only thing I was able to do was nod my head and grab the shears, hoping that it would be over soon. After separating the two of the them, I was directed towards the waiting area so they could both be cleaned. My family greeted me as if I had just ran through the ribbon at the marathon finish line and, although I was smiling, still a bit traumatized by what I saw.

Twenty minutes later, I saw my daughter in the incubator, this time looking like an actual human being. Lil Ky

When we made eye contact for the first time, I understood that beautiful moment everyone spoke of. For those few seconds we were staring at each other, everything paused, everyone disappeared and I was in awe at the capability I had to create another person. I wondered what she was thinking and what world she was transported from. Surges of happiness spiked through my body as I thought of all of the moments we would share: her first words, her first steps, questions about sex and boys. Then I thought about the inevitable unhappiness she would have to experience: her first heartbreak, losing her virginity and understanding death. At that moment, I immediately felt an emotional charge go off inside of my body that seemed to rearrange my cells. It made me protective and caring in a way that I had never been before.

That moment was truly life changing. I stayed at the hospital for the next few days learning how to feed and swaddle my little girl and making sure her mom was safe. That was four years ago and I remember it like was yesterday. December 25, 2010 was the day I met the love of my life. Kyren Ann Marie Robinson.


What I think about

Love & Other Bullshit Words

I find it funny how nobody ever dives deep into the thoughts of guys who get treated like most women do nowadays. It’d be silly to say that only the women get fucked over to the point of emotional distress, but that’s what I would call a surface reality. I’m only speaking on behalf of the black community because, well, I’m black and certain emotions are frowned upon.

My first “real” girlfriend was in middle school and nobody could tell me I wasn’t in love because I really was. Well, as much in love as a naïve 12 year old could be. I grew up under my Granny who was both a loving and hard woman, just like any other old school parent. My dad sacrificed 10 years worth of freedom for a couple dollars not long after I was born and my mom was in the streets finding her way as a result of it, so to have this other 12 year old girl give me emotions I’ve never felt before, it was mind blowing. I felt like I had something that was actually happy to have me. Although I talked proper and wore my shirts tucked in, I was really good at basketball and told funny enough jokes to fit in with just about everyone, especially the ‘cool’ people, so I hardly had any problems being accepted.

The temporary love of my life grew up in a neighborhood three minutes away from our middle school in what was called, “the Wood” (short for Studewood) and she was recognized as a part of a popular click that could dance and talk shit extremely well, which was important back then. Hell, they were basically the TLC of Hamilton Middle School.

But I knew better. We spent nights on the phone talking about everything, not just dancing and shit talking but about shit that made me realize that she was very similar to me. From about 6:00 pm to 7:00 pm (which was all the phone time I was able to have at the time), we talked about what we wanted to be when we grew up, what life meant, how dumb parents can be, and most of all, the feelings we had for each other.

The one thing about middle school though is the peer pressure. That shit will get the best of you. I remember going to a talent show they had at the local high school right up the street. I planned on surprising her because usually my granny wouldn’t let me go out on the weekends to play with my “hoodlum friends” but that particular weekend she decided to let me go. Of course, the church-going snitch had to chaperone us but I was just happy to be out of the house on a Friday night. I showered, loaded my hair with wave grease and starched my South Pole jeans and shirt, which was pointless because my Granny made me tuck it in. But best believe I took it out once I got in the car.

Everything was lit up at Booker T. Washington High School. Kids were outside cursing and kissing, some of them smoking and drinking in the parking lot waiting on the line to move. My granny gave me five dollars to get in which was just enough to not be able to eat or drink during the step show. Snacks were the least thing on my mind that night, I was fascinated by all that was going on and excited to see the BTW Gents- the most popular step team in all of H.I.S.D.

I gave the lady my five dollars grinning from ear to ear and headed inside to all of the commotion in the foyer. I immediately spotted her two friends which meant that she wasn’t too far behind. I walked up to them to see where my girlfriend was and, although I knew they would be surprised to see me out on the weekend, the look on their faces showed something a bit deeper than that.

“Hey y’all, where’s D at?” I said calmly.

Neither of them said a word, instead, they pointed towards the vending machine right on the side of the auditorium. Excited, I skipped my happy ass over towards the double doors, anxious to surprise my baby when suddenly my feet stopped moving.

My brain couldn’t process what I saw fast enough and I found myself having to think to breathe. My girlfriend of a month and a half was holding hands, kissing some light-skinned nigga with cornrows. The campus police officer came around the corner and flashed the light on the crowd of horny teens which sent them running directly towards me. The worst part is that I stood there frozen as she looked at me, noticing her giggle at something he said and walk right past me as if I didn’t exist. They made their way to the auditorium to watch the step show as I stood in the same spot for about a half an hour trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

By the time I made it back to my Granny’s house, I had realized what love actually was. When you’re a naïve 12 year old, love is a phrase some people say to feel like grownups. Not knowing that even grownups don’t have a clue to what that shit really is. But then again, that’s a whole different blog for different day.

What I think about

Single Thoughts

I’ve said the words “I love you” to three different women, other than family members, and they’ve all said it back to me. At that time I was expressing what I believed to be that elusive feeling that every human being yearns for. In the past, I thought of love to be this everlasting feeling of ecstasy that two people shared, which is always how it starts off to be, but, here I am, single. It makes me wonder if what I was feeling was even real love to begin with.

I grew up idolizing relationships like Corey and Topanga’s or Martin and Gina’s where laughter and intimacy outweighed the arguments and miscommunication. Daydreams still, to this day, plague me about what it would be like to fall in love with a best friend and it’s funny because these subconscious desire usually manifest as fictional characters in stories I write.

I’ll consider this bachelor status of mine as both a blessing and an opportunity to prepare myself for the best friend that I’ll be meeting pretty soon. We’re basically characters in God’s romance-comedy novel and, right now, I’m getting closer to the climax.

What I think about

Not Working!

Let me start by saying that I HATE WORKING. Just hearing the word “work” makes me throw up just a little bit in my mouth. There’s so much writing I could be doing 8 hours a day but instead, I’m submitting the majority of my energy to someone else’s dream. My body sometimes feels like a prison, and the prisoner is the formless desire trapped inside waiting on 5′ o’ clock so that it can go out into the yard. That’s where the freedom is and the reason I don’t get much sleep.

I’m in a struggle between my passion and my priority. My passion is transporting the creative part of my brain onto notebook paper or onto a computer screen like I’m doing now. My priority, on the other hand, is a beautiful 3 year girl that I’m genetically and emotionally attached to. Now we all know how the writing life goes:  you write a lot and get paid very little until the literary gods deem you worthy of a publishing contract. Or if you’re the chosen one, the gods adapt your novel into a movie.  But even then, you still may suck financially for awhile.

So what do you do?

I’m not really sure. My emotional side wants me to come into work tomorrow, on time and overdressed, just to tell my coaches, supervisors and managers to go fuck themselves. That would be an excellent decision if I wasn’t responsible for another human being. Therefore, my logical side would rather me continue earning money from the Devil in order to make sure my daughter doesn’t have to suffer.

This is what I’ve learned: the only way I will be able to get out of this slave ship disguised as a call center is to hone my writing skills to the point where I’m able to earn more from writing than from backstabbing my fellow earthlings. It’s all about balance which is necessary in just about everything. If I’m able to balance my passion and priority, eventually I’ll be able to fuse the two and live happily as a successful writer and father.

But until then, you can find me in the corner of my favorite bar after work. I’ll either be writing or pretending to be writing in order to look like a writer. Because, ya’ know, that’s what writers do.