DARK SKY

_Dark Sky

Nothing’s static—fate’s a DJ scratching vinyl and I’m the record still catching groove,

My reflection keeps glitching, I’m in flux like weather, metamorph as if memory is a Rubik’s cube.

What scarred me used to choke me, used to stain me, used to chain me – now it barely grazes,

I’m lighter, brighter, stranger to rage, but that same old wrath still pays me visits in phases.

They crowned me, claimed me, framed me; now I’m sitting at the table with nothing but quiet behind my name,

Trying to explain why the thunder in my stomach is gone, why the chase is missing, why my hunger looks tame.

I’m worrying less about the yesterdays, more about the “how do I make today laugh?”

Life used to punch my ticket every morning—30 years fit for hurting—now my burdens cut in half.

Got paper stuffed in socks, expecting more zeros to show up like they’re late to a party,

A house so peaceful I throw tantrums just to watch my own halo slip, call it art, call it being rowdy.

Screaming “forget it” not because I must but because it feels good to cuss in a museum of manners,

Pretending I’m misshapen so you’ll accept that my normal is abnormal, camouflage in emotional banners.

Up a creek without a paddle, I dig deep—ain’t the river, it’s the mirror whispering back,

Maybe I quit fixing myself, maybe I tripped, maybe I’m running laps around a panic attack.

Enough to make you blackout, pull a Mac out, aim it at the sky while a black cloud hovers my glass roof—

We play cat and mouse with my shadows, me chasing me, tired of this loop.

My lungs scream prayers hoping somebody hears the slang and the syllables clearly,

My partner wants divinity on demand, but doesn’t sense how close the dark gets, how eerie.

Pretty faces throw themselves like bouquets, but my phone stays on “Do Not Disturb,”

Some folks never seen a comma in a bank account and think I’m weird because my songs sound like verbs.

Lost pieces of myself—real pieces—bits of my limbs, part of my hand,

Still writing with phantom fingers, still walking half-off but standing taller than most can stand.

People say I’m emo—maybe that means my songs bleed harder, maybe it’s dyslexic, read me backwards and I’m even more lethal,

Make a whole verse rhyme with the one behind it, mirror at the end of the tunnel, palindrome of people.

Loved ones dipped because my storm was a category they couldn’t survive,

Cherishing the ones who still surf this flood with me, even if the vows drowned and barely came out alive.

My loneliness is a neighborhood; I stroll its avenues alone, my forecast is my own,

Fans saw the misery in my bars and built a ladder out of them; the curse became the throne.

Been medicated, meditated, sedated, hated; character assassinated like a headline,

Tongue kissed the devil’s pitchfork just to taste disaster and spit fire disguised as punchline.

Rap’s fabricated, so many castrated hearts on wax, they’d fear truth less if they had any left,

Grab a mag, spray it?—the ones around me would shoot first, loving my beautiful ugly to death.

And now let me speak to the ones I cater to—

Would you love me the same if my songs were unplayable, when You heard me on the radio.

Promised to maintain being unique but relatable,

All while suffering from things that could do away with you.

Poetry rides the beat like a therapy session, each consonant on Kush, every vowel is blunted

Potential knocking at my door like Jehovah’s Witness; God keeps hitting “maybe later,” opportunities shaking.

If all I hear is the sound of blackness, why am I pessimistic? The voices are the loudest in the silence. Minds Arguing. Face Aura. When the silent screams louder than the smile on your face, those thoughts echo.

You’ll never progress if you never will it —every word I birth should live, let that be prolific.

My wings spread, but when I hit the sky the weather flips scripts and leaves me petrified.

And in the middle of it all: yeah I’ve been through hell but at least I’m not down 6 feet standing up could be 6 feet underground so I pat myself on the back when I can carrying other people‘s weight trying to be the bigger man and for not pointing fingers, I think I deserve a hand.

So I black out and laugh, shooting stars, aiming at spaceships, ducking a cloud that loves my glass house,

Every day we’re playing cat and mouse, tired enough to pass out, tired of running but still running with my past out. Dark Sky, Black Cloud.

_MUJAHID KARIM