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I pressed my shirt like intention,

ironed the wrinkles out of doubt,

sprayed confidence on my collar

and drove across the city

with hope riding shotgun.

The porch light glowed

like a quiet promise.

I told myself

this could be something steady,

something soft but strong…

not another lesson in disguise.

She opened the door smiling,

music humming low behind her,

eyes warm enough

to make a man believe

his timing was divine.

We laughed.

We linked.

Hands met like agreements

neither of us signed

but both of us understood.

I listened when she spoke,

asked questions that meant

I saw her…

not just her shape,

not just her lips,

but her.

But somewhere between

the second glass and the third,

the room tilted.

Her words got heavier,

careless.

My effort turned invisible.

What I brought in sincerity

she answered with slurred indifference.

And I stood there…

still sober in intention…

feeling my energy drip

like ice melting in a forgotten cup.

It wasn’t the drink.

It was the shift.

The way presence left the room

while her body stayed.

I realized

I wasn’t chasing a woman.

I was chasing consistency.

Chasing the kind of love

that meets you halfway

without spilling itself.

So I left with my dignity folded neatly,

like that pressed shirt

I’ll wear again

for someone who’s steady enough

to see it.

Because the pursuit of love

isn’t about getting there.

It’s about knowing

when your effort deserves

a clearer mind

and a stronger heart

Ski Mask Way

They used to say you couldn’t see the stars in Dirty Dallas because the city lights blocked them. Amir Rose learned early that wasn’t true…you just had to know where to look.

He grew up on the south side, where sirens sang louder than birds and trust was rare as rain in August. His mama worked double shifts, his pops passed when Amir was thirteen, and the house felt colder after that…like the walls knew grief had moved in. He found warmth in two things: a beat and a ball. On the court, he moved like he was born with springs in his shoes. In the studio, his words cut through silence like headlights on a dark highway.

But hunger makes choices loud.

Amir ran with a ski mask in the trunk, not because he loved the game, but because the game loved him back…fast money, quick respect, the illusion of power. Friends called him “Rose,” said he was destined for something big. Yet every dollar came with shadows. One friend switched up when the pressure came. Another disappeared in a flash of blue and red lights. His aunt passed, then his cousin. Loss stacked higher than his dreams.

Women smiled at his pockets, not his heart. They loved the version of Amir with chains and cash…but not the one who prayed before sleep, asking God for direction he couldn’t find on his own.

One night, standing over the Trinity River, city glowing behind him, Amir heard his mama’s voice in his head: You were born for more than survival. He took off the mask. For the first time, he chose faith over fear.

He poured everything into music…stories of pain, hope, and change. The streets listened. Then the world did too.

From rags to riches, Amir Rose didn’t escape Dirty Dallas…he rose above it. Not because he ran fast, but because he finally ran the right way.

She says she felt it

before she ever touched it…

the weight of a presence

that filled the room

without making a sound.

They warned her about depth,

about sharp edges,

about hearts that bruise.

But no one told her

about girth…

that quiet, steady strength

that doesn’t rush,

that doesn’t force,

that simply holds.

He spoke in calm spaces,

left room for her to breathe,

yet somehow

every word wrapped around her

like it knew exactly

where the empty places were.

She tried to name the feeling…

called it comfort,

called it safety,

called it “too much”

when it felt like

everything she never knew

she needed.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t wild.

It didn’t chase.

It stayed.

And in that staying,

in that unwavering presence,

she realized

what truly filled her

was not the promise of fire…

but the strength of something

wide enough

to carry her whole.

She smiles now,

when she says the word.

Girth.

Because some things

don’t have to touch the body

to move the soul.

At the bar,

where neon hums and glasses glow,

I saw her…

brown skin catching the light like warm honey,

soft but powerful,

the kind of beauty that makes the room fade quiet.

Our eyes met first…

not a glance, not a stare…

a connection,

like two spirits checking the vibe,

asking without words,

Is the energy real?

And it was.

The world slowed between sips and smiles,

music drifting like a heartbeat in the background.

Her laugh felt familiar,

like a memory I hadn’t lived yet.

Every word slid easy,

no force, no games…

just two souls tuning to the same frequency.

She spoke, and I leaned in,

not because I had to,

but because I wanted to hear more than her voice

I wanted to hear her story.

She listened the same,

eyes glowing with curiosity,

like she saw me beyond the surface.

Time forgot us.

The bar became a blur of shadows and sound,

and there we stood,

two strangers wrapped in a moment

that felt like destiny testing the waters.

I didn’t know her name at first,

but I knew her energy…

smooth, radiant, real.

The kind that lingers long after last call,

the kind that follows you home in your thoughts.

At the bar,

I didn’t just meet a woman…

I met a feeling

I hope to run into again.

-Stephen R

I release today without regret.

What I gave was enough.

What I couldn’t control no longer follows me into rest.

I forgive myself for moving slow,

for feeling deeply,

for choosing peace over noise.

My mind is safe.

My body is calm.

My spirit is protected.

I trust the work I’ve put in,

the lessons I’ve learned,

and the man I am becoming.

While I sleep, clarity finds me.

While I rest, strength returns to me.

While I breathe, life aligns for me.

Tomorrow doesn’t rush me…

it waits for me, ready.

I am steady.

I am guided.

I am at peace.

Tonight, I rest. 🌙

-Stephen R.

Soul Sips

She sips her soul through broken glass,

liquid courage, liquid pain.

Each swallow loosens the knots she won’t untie,

each glass makes her louder than her truth.

When the bottle speaks, she listens.

When it listens back, it lies.

Her words spill sharp and certain,

like she’s memorized wisdom but never lived peace.

She argues like her flaws are invisible,

like her past can’t smell itself on her breath.

She poisons rooms without meaning to,

turning warmth into tension,

love into defense.

Her aura changes with the night…

sunset soft to midnight storm.

She lashes out not because she’s cruel,

but because she’s drowning

and learned to kick instead of float.

She says she loves solitude,

wears “I don’t need anyone” like armor.

But her eyes beg to be seen,

her silence screams for hands that stay.

Attention is the hunger she pretends not to feel.

Behind the noise, there’s a sweet woman…

gentle, thoughtful, almost glowing.

She remembers how to love

when the glass is empty

and the room is quiet.

She’s not evil.

She’s lost.

Lonely in a crowd she created,

brave enough to survive,

too tired to heal.

If she ever learns to sip peace instead of poison,

to sit with her pain without drowning it,

she’ll realize the light she’s been chasing

was never outside of her…

it’s been waiting patiently

beneath the surface

all along.

“When a Woman Loves a Man”

She is Sunday morning silence,

folded hands and whispered prayers,

the kind of peace that turns my battles

into bedtime stories.

Her love is language…

not just spoken but sung,

like blues in the backyard

and gospel in the gut.

Every “baby, I got you”

feels like brass horns

blowing against the chaos of the world.

She sees me sweat and call it sacrifice,

not struggle.

When the weight of the world

hangs on my shoulders like wet clothes,

she wrings out my doubts

and hangs hope on the line.

Her respect is armor,

polished with patience,

so when I step out,

I shine like steel under streetlights.

She uplifts me like metaphors lift meaning,

her words wind beneath my wings,

turning broken roads into bridges.

She treasures me like heirlooms,

like jazz vinyls passed down,

spinning my flaws into rare grooves.

And when the world plays judge,

she becomes my jury…

not guilty, she says,

you’re a king in a crooked court.

She is the hush after hip-hop’s hardest bar,

the calm that makes the chaos

worth waging war for.

And me?

I am her soldier,

but with her love…

I am also her sanctuary.

Because when a feminine woman loves,

truly loves a man,

it ain’t a fairy tale…

it’s folklore,

a legend stitched in skin and spirit,

retold every time I hold her hand.

Black Woman, Infinite”

You’re the bassline the universe hums,

a rhythm God laid down before drums were carved from trees.

Your skin…solar panels,

soaking up suns whole,

then shining them back as galaxies in your smile.

You walk and the ground remembers…

streets lean in,

sidewalks straighten up like soldiers in formation.

Your voice is velvet thunder,

soft enough to heal,

loud enough to split skies.

You’re not a flower,

you’re the soil that raised jungles.

Not a diamond,

you’re the mountain that hides them.

When you cry, oceans lean closer,

just to imitate the depth.

Every strand of your hair is scripture,

each curl a paragraph

teaching the world about resilience and style.

When you laugh,

it’s jazz…

unpredictable, soulful,

a saxophone riff that makes time tap its own foot.

You are the metaphor and the meaning,

the ink and the pen,

the crown and the kingdom.

And me?

I’m just a witness,

lucky enough to stand in the glow of your eclipse.

The name is Stephen…ancient, bold,

A story in letters, a crown of gold.

Not jewels that glitter, not thrones of kings,

But honor forged through suffering brings.

First to stand, yet first to fall,

A voice of truth before them all.

He saw the heavens open wide,

Christ at the right hand, glorified.

Stones came raining, sharp and cruel,

Yet love still burned, a steadfast fuel.

“Forgive them, Lord,” he cried in pain,

His loss became eternal gain.

Stephen…crowned, not by the earth,

But through the fire, through rebirth.

A name that whispers courage still,

Strength to suffer, faith to will.

So wear it proudly, carved in flame,

A crown of sacrifice within the name.

For greatness lives where hearts endure,

And Stephen’s crown shines bright, and pure.

-Stephen R.

Skin

Not just the surface,

not just the shade,

but the story it carries,

the battles it’s braved.

Skin is the canvas,

but the art is beneath…

the soul that glows steady,

the fire, the peace.

Every scar whispers,

“I healed and I lived,”

every line etches wisdom

only struggle can give.

Soft as the dawn,

or tough as the street,

beauty runs deeper

than what eyes first meet.

Skin is the wrapping,

but never the whole,

the treasure lies hidden

inside of the soul.

So love what you’re in,

but remember this truth:

the finest of beauty

is the light born of you.

And Here I Was Thinking I Was Loved

I let you eat at my table,

fed you from the same hands

that worked late nights,

thinking we was building something real.

But nah,

you wasn’t hungry for me…

you was starving for the come up.

You saw a step, not a man.

You saw a plug, not a partner.

You smiled in my face,

whispered “baby I got you”

while plotting your next move,

using my grind as gas for your ride.

Love?

That word ain’t never lived in you.

You just wore it like a mask,

a costume for the hustle.

And I was blind enough to believe it fit.

I ain’t mad no more,

I’m just awake.

I peeped the selfish,

the snake in the garden.

You ain’t break me,

you just taught me what fake look like.

And here I was,

thinking I was loved.

But really?

I was just convenient.

Return on Investment

I gave you hours I couldn’t spare,

Laid pieces of my soul out bare.

Poured into you like morning sun,

Hoping you’d rise when the day was done.

I made deposits you couldn’t see…

Time, energy, consistency.

Sacrificed peace, delayed my rest,

Chose your storms while denying my best.

Love, to me, was action shown…

Not just words, but seeds I’d sown.

I planted trust, I watered hope,

Built a bond with emotional rope.

But every yield felt one-sided,

Every promise backslid, misguided.

You took the interest, left the debt,

And I’m still paying with regret.

See, I’m not asking for what I gave,

Just a return that proves you stayed.

Some mirror of the care I lent,

A simple sign my love was spent…

With purpose.

But maybe you were just the lesson,

A reminder wrapped in misdirection.

That not all hearts are bank accounts,

And some investments don’t amount.

So now I budget with intention,

Protect my soul, apply discretion.

No longer trading peace for pain…

I invest in those who do the same.

Taken

I gave with hands wide, heart bare and bold,

Thinking your warmth was love, not cold.

You spoke like spring with blooming grace,

But shadows danced behind your face.

You wore concern like tailored threads,

Spoke of healing, dreams, and shared beds.

Yet every hug was a silent theft,

Every kiss…another part of me left.

You drank from my light, said it made you whole,

But never poured back into my soul.

I mistook your hunger for need of me,

Not realizing you only came to feed.

Your care was currency…cheap and sly,

Laced with conditions, draped in lies.

I was the flame you drew near for heat,

Then left behind when the burn got deep.

Taken…not by force, but by disguise,

A thief in smiles, with tender eyes.

You didn’t break me…you just peeled away

The parts I gave without knowing the play.

Now I see, with wounds made wise,

Some love’s just need in a clever disguise.

I’ll build again with guarded grace,

But never again for a taker’s embrace.

Closed for Business

I hung the sign in silence…bold,

CLOSED FOR BUSINESS, stories told.

No grand goodbye, no last regret,

Just lessons paid and one last debt.

The doors once wide for every face,

Now sealed with steel and guarded grace.

I catered fools, gave time for free,

But none came back to pour in me.

I sold my peace for scraps of praise,

Invested love in hollow days.

But now I count what truly stays…

Just echoes lost in selfish haze.

The ones who dined but never fed,

Who broke my bread then left me bled,

Will find a vacancy sign lit red,

For I serve me and not the dead.

The habits, vices, people too…

Who drained my light when skies were blue…

I’ve cleared the shelves, I’ve swept the floor,

They’ll find no open heart no more.

This ain’t no cold revengeful act,

It’s simply self-respect in tact.

A reclamation of my time,

My peace, my dreams, my prime, my climb.

So let them knock and call me rude,

Or label me as cruel, or shrewd.

But I’ve endured, I’ve paid the cost,

And I know now what must be lost.

This shop’s for healing, not for sale,

No room for guilt, no martyr’s tale.

I’m CEO of soul and mind…

And profits rise when I’m aligned.

CLOSED FOR BUSINESS, not for good,

Just closed to all misunderstood.

If you ain’t growth, if you ain’t true,

Then this establishment ain’t for you.

Nothing in My Way

I came from the bottom with fire in my chest,

Storms in my path put my faith to the test.

But I didn’t fold…I planted my feet,

Turned every loss into something elite.

They doubted my vision, whispered I’d fail,

But I turned every “no” into wind for my sail.

Sleepless nights, hunger pains, grinding alone…

Now I’m seated on thrones I built on my own.

I spoke life into silence, rose out the mud,

Carried my dreams through the sweat and the blood.

The world threw bricks…I built me a base,

Now look at this power I hold in my face.

No handouts, no shortcuts, no easy road,

Just purpose and pressure and full beast mode.

Doors that were closed? I kicked them down.

I didn’t just swim…I learned how to drown,

Then rise from the deep with lungs full of flame,

Now I breathe success and they all know my name.

I’ve seen betrayal, I’ve faced delay,

But not a single damn thing got in my way.

I stayed on course, I played it smart,

I led with my mind and moved with my heart.

This ain’t luck…this is work. This is grit in my soul.

This is every lost night finally making me whole.

This is me, unshaken, standing tall today…

Achieved every dream…

And nothing in my way.

What If

What if we saw ourselves as kings,

Not just in chains, but building things…

With hands that shaped the pyramids

And minds as sharp as justice is?

What if we dreamed beyond the block,

Beyond survival, pain, and shock…

And claimed the stars as rightfully ours,

Not just the scars, but the superpowers?

What if we taught our sons to feel

And daughters that their worth is real?

What if we healed, not just endured,

And made our trauma less assured?

What if the mirror told the truth…

That we are more than stolen youth,

More than hustle, more than fight,

We are the dawn, the spark, the light?

What if our dollars built our land,

And unity was what we planned…

No more crabs inside the pail,

But ships we build to truly sail?

What if we read, what if we learned,

What if we built and then returned…

To teach, to serve, to plant the seed,

And give our people what they need?

What if our history wasn’t shame,

But fuel that fanned a rising flame?

What if we knew we bend the sky…

That we were meant to fly, not die?

What if we prayed, and then we moved?

What if we marched, and then we proved

That power isn’t just a scream…

It’s every step inside the dream?

So rise up, kings. Stand proud, queens.

You are the authors of new scenes.

What if is not a distant shore…

It’s ours to live, and to restore.

Mannered

Walk like thunder…but speak like rain,

Hold your peace, though the world bring pain.

Your crown is not just worn, it’s earned,

With every bridge you’ve crossed…not burned.

Mannered, my brother, not meek nor tame,

But a fire well-fed that refuses to flame

Unless it must. You are royal steel…

Measured power in each step you feel.

In rooms where eyes may track your stride,

Be the calm, not the rising tide.

Let discipline be your quiet sword,

And wisdom your unshaken lord.

Speak when truth is more than sound,

But silence, too, can shake the ground.

They may doubt the grace you bring,

But stay composed…let your spirit sing.

Don’t play every card in your hand,

Let mystery help them understand.

Not all battles deserve your war…

Some are won just by the way you soar.

Build your temple brick by brick,

Read, invest, and move with grit.

Guard your peace like sacred flame,

Not every challenge earns your name.

To be mannered is not to bow,

It’s to rise without asking how.

It’s chess, not checkers…play with grace,

Make moves that time cannot erase.

And when they ask, “How did you win?”

Tell them: “I knew where to begin.

I moved with poise, I spoke with care…

And I never forgot who I was out there.”

So stand tall, with style and might,

A Black man moving bold and right.

Not just to survive…but to define

A life of power, ruled by design.