I am the illusion

What are you passionate about? Let me be real.I’m passionate about truth—the kind that doesn’t wear makeup, doesn’t shrink itself, doesn’t ask for permission to be felt. I’m not here to sugarcoat or sell perfection. I’m here to tell it like it is, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it’s heavy.I care about the people who wake up tired. Not just physically tired, but soul-tired. The ones who…

he wasn’t a storm,but everything around him stayed broken.the kind of presence that teaches youhow to flinch in new languages.never raised a fist—just the volume,just the stakes,just the doubt.i used to call it love.now i call it what it was:a soft warwith too many lullabies.he made the chaos feel curated—like hurt,but hand-delivered.some days,my body remembers himbefore my mind does.a shiver…

I wasn’t lookin’ for you—wasn’t huntin’, wasn’t open.But you cracked a grin like a stolen lyricand I let my guard play dead.Didn’t ask for the ache.Didn’t sign no contract for collision.But there you were—soft-spoken chaosin a room full of static.And I, stupid with curiosity,let my name sound different in your mouth.We wasn’t a story.We was a skipped heartbeat wrapped in maybe.Unwritten,…

Depression doesn’t walk in like some dramatic villain in a movie. It slides in quiet, borrowing your voice, sitting in your chest, and convincing you it’s just being honest. It doesn’t scream—it whispers. And the worst part? It’s convincing. It’s familiar. It sounds like you. That’s what makes it dangerous. For a long time, I believed every word it said. It told me I was lazy. That I didn’t want…

What do you do to be involved in the community? Let’s be real — being involved in the community ain’t all cookouts, feel-good panels, and Instagram-worthy service projects. It’s work. It’s showing up when nobody’s watching. It’s caring enough to get uncomfortable.Me? I stay involved by refusing to look away. When something’s wrong — injustice, ignorance, neglect — I don’t just whisper about it…

What do you do to be involved in the community? Let’s be real — being involved in the community ain’t all cookouts, feel-good panels, and Instagram-worthy service projects. It’s work. It’s showing up when nobody’s watching. It’s caring enough to get uncomfortable.Me? I stay involved by refusing to look away. When something’s wrong — injustice, ignorance, neglect — I don’t just whisper about it…

What topics do you like to discuss? Let’s get one thing clear — I don’t “like” small talk. I don’t do small talk. If the conversation can’t get its hands dirty, if it can’t scratch past the surface, then respectfully, miss me with it. Life’s too short to waste oxygen on weather reports and fake laughs.What do I like to discuss?Everything that matters and everything that’s supposed to be…

What topics do you like to discuss? Let’s get one thing clear — I don’t “like” small talk. I don’t do small talk. If the conversation can’t get its hands dirty, if it can’t scratch past the surface, then respectfully, miss me with it. Life’s too short to waste oxygen on weather reports and fake laughs.What do I like to discuss?Everything that matters and everything that’s supposed to be…

What are your favorite emojis? Let’s not lie to ourselves—emojis have become emotional punctuation marks for a generation that texts instead of talks. They’re digital side-eyes, virtual hugs, passive-aggressive shade throwers, and flirty little nothings in pixel form. But ask me what my favorite emojis are, and suddenly I’m holding a mirror up to my entire emotional catalog, wondering, who am I…

What are your favorite emojis? Let’s not lie to ourselves—emojis have become emotional punctuation marks for a generation that texts instead of talks. They’re digital side-eyes, virtual hugs, passive-aggressive shade throwers, and flirty little nothings in pixel form. But ask me what my favorite emojis are, and suddenly I’m holding a mirror up to my entire emotional catalog, wondering, who am I…

When do you feel most productive? You ever sit there, staring at the clock, feeling like a prisoner to time itself — and then outta nowhere, boom, a spark hits? Like your mind finally clocked in after wasting hours pretending to be awake. Yeah, that’s productivity for me. She’s inconsistent, moody, and shows up when she damn well pleases.If we’re being honest, I feel most productive when two…

When do you feel most productive? You ever sit there, staring at the clock, feeling like a prisoner to time itself — and then outta nowhere, boom, a spark hits? Like your mind finally clocked in after wasting hours pretending to be awake. Yeah, that’s productivity for me. She’s inconsistent, moody, and shows up when she damn well pleases.If we’re being honest, I feel most productive when two…

When do you feel most productive? You ever sit there, staring at the clock, feeling like a prisoner to time itself — and then outta nowhere, boom, a spark hits? Like your mind finally clocked in after wasting hours pretending to be awake. Yeah, that’s productivity for me. She’s inconsistent, moody, and shows up when she damn well pleases.If we’re being honest, I feel most productive when two…

(a street poem by DiegoJae)

Born where winters bite and summers spit heat—

Detroit streets taught me rhythm before I knew the beat.

East side chaos, west side lessons,

backyards and basements became my confessions.

A pit bull heart with a poet’s tongue,

I bend but don’t break, been doin' this since young.

Got kicked out the nest, flew through broken skies,

every scar I wear got truth behind the lies.

They say “stay in your lane,” but I pave my own,

with a chipped-up crown and a mobile phone.

No lights, no water, still the vision clear—

Majik in the ink, turn pain into premiere.

Adaptable. Ain’t just a word I say,

it’s stitched in my hustle, it’s how I pray.

It’s sleeping on couches, still dressing in pride,

it’s the music I make when the world collides.

It’s loving too hard, then learning the burn,

it’s flipping the script when tables don’t turn.

I’m soul over sound, I’m beat over boast,

I’m the ghost in the groove when you need it most.

So when they ask me what I’ve been through,

I don’t unpack—I paint the view.

With rhythm, with grace, with a whisper or roar,

I’m the storm and the shelter, the slam and the door.

Adaptable.

Like the art I bleed,

like the life I grow

Short fuse. Cold nights.

Raised on East side heartbeats and west side fights.

Mama prayed in the kitchen,

while the city taught lessons

with rusted streetlights and late-night confessions.

I autowind my mind back—like cassette tapes

popped in a Crown Vic dash

when uncles told stories

that smelled like Black & Milds and fresh grease.

Memory don’t skip when it’s pain on repeat.

They thought I’d stall out—nah.

I was born with jump cables for veins,

hustled through potholes,

turned evictions into poems with Detroit slang.

God gave me rhythm; the devil gave me rage.

Both live in my pen when I step to the page.

I autowind like it’s built in my bones.

Auto for the motion,

wind like the spirit that won't leave me alone.

Even broke, I stay driven.

No keys needed—just pressure and pain.

Push start soul.

Ink bleeds like it's tryna explain.

See, I done loved and lost,

slept in shadows, fought for light.

Heart broke so loud,

it echoed through sleepless nights.

But I autowind—back through the wreckage,

past friends who ghosted,

and lovers who used my dreams as leverage.

Still here.

Still spittin’.

Still healing in public with precision.

I don’t pause—I rewind on purpose,

to see what built this version.

Every scar I earned

is part of the sermon.

And when I rise,

ain’t no climax,

just a quiet breath and a soul intact.

That’s how Detroit kids come back.

Autowind.

No hands on the dial,

just time and survival.

Let it loop.

Let it play.

Lowkey…Healing ain’t linear, but baby you on a carousel. Same circle, same story, same damn outcome. Different day, different outfit, same inner child screaming while you post quotes you don’t believe yet.Last nerve?It’s the way you weaponize “growth” to justify not growing. Every convo gotta be a TED Talk now. Can’t nobody vent around you without you diagnosing them with a trauma you ain’t…

I ain’t gon’ lie—some days feel like the world just forgot you exist. Not in a dramatic way, not even loud. It’s quiet. Like the phone that don’t ring. Like the silence after you pour your heart out and nobody says a word back. That kind of alone. That kind of disconnected.It was a Tuesday. Funny how pain don’t need a special occasion. I woke up and the air felt thick, like it was tryna smother…