#autowind

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.