You’re spirit is calling me soft, low, like a memory trying to breathe again. I was driving through 5th Ward, and it’s like I can feel your spirit leaning into the passenger seat, whispering the things we never finished saying.
Streetlights blurred like they were grieving too, every corner humming your name, every storefront holding a little piece of us.
I kept my hand on the wheel, but my heart drifted toward where you used to be toward all the nights we swore love was something we could outrun the world with.
But the world changed. And now all I have is this ache, this ghost of a touch I still swear is real whenever the city gets quiet enough for you to find me again.
If you’re still out there, if your spirit still lingers in these streets, just know I’m still answering when you call.
If only you knew how long heaven been clapping for you.
You didn’t just grow up you grew through it. Through loss that didn’t ask permission. Through pressure that bent but never broke you. Through nights you smiled in public and cried where nobody could see.
In two more months you’ll walk across that stage, clippers in your hands, future wide open, feeding your family with a gift God placed in you early. Baby… that just takes the cake.
And next month another son. Mmm. Life keeps trusting you with souls. God don’t do that by accident.
I see how you love your children how you stay, how you soften your voice, how you shield them from the things that tried to swallow you whole. That’s a man. That’s my baby.
And that poetry of yours… Lord have mercy. You don’t just write words you reach people. You speak the pain they never learned how to say. You turn wounds into windows and let light in for strangers. Grandma smiles every time someone heals because of you.
But don’t think I don’t see you.
I still see that ache in your eyes. The same one your daddy had the day I left this earth. That quiet grief that learned how to smile in public and cry alone.
I know those tears sit right behind your laughter. I know sometimes you keep moving so you don’t have to feel.
But listen to me, baby this moment is allowed to be held. Joy don’t betray pain. Happiness don’t erase where you came from.
Stand still sometimes. Let pride rest in your chest. Let laughter stay longer than guilt. You earned this season.
You survived. You provided. You believed when it hurt to believe.
And if you ever forget who you are, remember this
You are the man I prayed you’d become before you even knew how to pray for yourself.
I’m proud of you in ways words can’t finish. I’m with you in ways you still feel. And baby…
Smile wide. Cry if you need to. But embrace this life.
I’m writing you from a cage where the lights never fully go out and silence only comes in pieces. Steel bars hum all night, doors talk louder than men, and time drags its feet like it got nowhere to be.
In here, they count us like numbers, feed us through slots, watch us sleep like we forgot how to be human. Some days I feel boxed in like an animal pace the cell, circle the same thoughts, try not to lose myself between headcount and lockdown.
But my soul still moves, son. Even behind concrete.
I carry a lot on my mind. Regret sits heavy on the bunk beside me. Memories replay louder than the TV down the tier. Some nights I just stare at the wall, trying to remember the man I was before these walls learned my name.
I remember going to church alone. Slipping past the congregation, hands empty, heart shaking, sitting in the back like I didn’t deserve the front. Before I could form a prayer, God lowered His voice.
Not thunder. Not fire. Just a whisper meant only for me.
He spoke to the place the streets couldn’t reach. Told me He still saw me beneath the weight I was carrying. Told me I wasn’t forgotten just tired.
I felt my breathing change. Felt my shoulders fall like something finally believed I was worth saving.
I was proud of myself that day. Still am. Because when a man hears God whisper and doesn’t run, that’s courage learning how to stay.
Now my prayers sound different. I pray staring at a cracked ceiling, paint peeling like it gave up too. I talk to God through steel and concrete, through vents and locked doors, hoping my words climb higher than these walls.
Every night, I lift you toward Him, son. Say your name slow like He might miss it if I rush. I ask Him to cover you where my arms can’t reach. To guide you where my footsteps stopped. To speak to you softly before the world starts yelling.
I write poetry on scraps in here. Fold verses into my mattress, hide prayers in between pages. Every line is a window. Every word reminds me that my body is locked up, but my spirit still knows how to roam.
I wish you could see how much I’ve changed. Wish I could watch you grow without glass between us. Wish I could correct my mistakes out loud instead of whispering them to the dark.
Don’t let my absence become your excuse. Let it be your warning. Your father is more than this cage but this cage is real.
Some nights the tears come easy. No surprise there. Regret leaks through the cracks when the block goes quiet and all I hear is breathing and chains.
Still, I hold on to this truth: even behind concrete, a man can still find God. Still find himself. Still love his son deeper than distance allows.
If God ever whispers to you, listen. Don’t run. Stay.
Until the day I can tell you this under open skies instead of fluorescent lights, know I’m fighting not with my hands, but with my heart.
What separates us now ain’t hate. Ain’t distance. It’s concrete that remembers names and time that never asks why.
At night, I still cry the same thug tears we learned young just quieter now, so my son don’t hear them settling in my chest.
You put chains on the pain so the world couldn’t keep touching it. I put chains on my heart so love wouldn’t keep leaving. Behind your eyes the same boy still knocking. Inside my chest peace still pacing.
We came up off the same pavement. Same cracked courts. Same basketball echoing through summers that raised us. Two boys jumping for rims, thinking if we reached high enough life would have to catch us.
My daddy spoke scripture over dinner. Your daddy spoke survival on the block. Both of them loved us. Both of them were scared. They just taught us different ways to stay alive.
I bled for my brother. I bled for my baby sister. You bled for a flag not for power, but for protection. You didn’t want violence. You wanted to belong without being disposable.
I pick up a pen just to speak life again. You picked up steel just to feel hope again.
I remember us turning pain into smoke, dreaming about saving our mamas, pulling them out the ghetto before the ghetto buried us first.
I remember us throwing footballs to the youngstas, trying to be the fathers we never saw stay. Trying to give them a future before the streets introduced themselves.
I remember taking you to church. You walked past the congregation hands empty, heart unsteady and before you found the words, God lowered His voice.
Not thunder. Not fire. Just a whisper meant only for you.
He spoke to the place the streets couldn’t reach. Told you He still saw you beneath the weight you were carrying. Told you you weren’t forgotten just tired.
I watched your breathing change. Saw your shoulders fall like something finally believed you were worth saving.
I was proud of you then. Still am. Because when a man hears God whisper and doesn’t run that’s courage learning how to stay.
Then life spoke my name. I found out I was becoming a father. Everything slowed down. Every choice started echoing. I moved southwest, trying to choose life on purpose. But you never left my prayers. I begged God you wouldn’t make one decision time wouldn’t forgive.
Years later, grief already sitting beside me, your mama found me. My uncle gone. My spirit tired. Then she said it 19 years.
Something in me collapsed without making a sound. Some pain doesn’t cry. It just teaches you how to breathe around it.
They told me you had a son. I saw him. Same eyes. Same fire. I smiled through the ache because a piece of you made it past the walls even if your body didn’t.
I miss you, lil bro. Not the charges. Not the rumors. You. The boy who dreamed loud. The man who loved hard. The brother who chose survival the only way he knew how.
What separates us now ain’t love. It’s concrete and years. But at night I still cry the same thug tears for you. Always have. Always will.
Heavenly Father, I come to You with my head bowed and my heart heavy for my lil bro sitting behind concrete walls that can’t cage his spirit.
Touch him where the world hardened him. Straighten what the streets bent. Protect his mind when the nights get loud and silence feels like punishment.
Wrap him in Your presence when loneliness tries to claim him. Stand guard when anger rises, when memories knock, when time feels cruel and endless.
Give him strength that don’t come from muscle, but from peace. Give him wisdom that don’t come from pain, but from You.
Let his heart stay soft in a place designed to turn men cold. Let his faith be a mustard seed— small, stubborn, unbreakable— pushing through steel and years.
Heal what he never said out loud. Forgive what he’s still learning to forgive himself for. Cover him when I can’t reach him. Hold him when my prayers are all I have left.
And Father, when the days feel heavy and the nights feel longer than hope, remind him he is not forgotten, not forsaken, not finished.
Bring him home changed, not broken. Humble, not bitter. Alive in spirit, not just breathing.
I place him in Your hands, because even a thug needs grace, and even a cell can’t stop Your mercy.
I love the way you explore yourself like a secret you trust the night with. Your touch moves with intention, soft circles summoning heat, a quiet rhythm only you know.
Your head falls back eyes fluttering somewhere between here and heaven, toes curling as if the moment has learned your name.
I watch in reverence, studying the art of you, how desire gathers and overflows slow, sparkling, like champagne catching candlelight.
You don’t have to ask. Your eyes speak in hunger. Your breath calls me closer. And I answer with patience, with lips, with devotion.
Rest your shoulders, let the weight of the world slide off while I hold you steady in my rhythm. Your breath changes when I lean in close, lips trembling like you already know what my touch is about to say.
Silk sheets testify as your body answers mine not rushed, not forced, just two souls syncing in real time. You pull me closer, like distance has never been your language, and the room hums with every shared movement.
Eyes closed, we disappear into each other not chasing the moment, letting it take us. A slow quake through the night, the kind that rearranges constellations and leaves stars out of breath.
Later the storm quiets. Your legs still remember my name, my lips still chasing your smile. We laugh softly, foreheads touching, like lovers who survived something beautiful.
Morning comes gentle. Sunlight draped across your skin, your head resting where my heartbeat lives. I wake up knowing the truth not just the night was mine…
Styner's Studio Universe
Styner's Studio Universe
ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘɪʀɪᴛ ᴄᴀʟʟꜱ
You’re spirit is calling me
soft, low, like a memory trying to breathe again.
I was driving through 5th Ward,
and it’s like I can feel your spirit
leaning into the passenger seat,
whispering the things we never finished saying.
Streetlights blurred like they were grieving too,
every corner humming your name,
every storefront holding a little piece of us.
I kept my hand on the wheel,
but my heart drifted toward where you used to be toward all the nights we swore
love was something we could outrun the world with.
But the world changed.
And now all I have is this ache,
this ghost of a touch I still swear is real
whenever the city gets quiet enough
for you to find me again.
If you’re still out there,
if your spirit still lingers in these streets,
just know
I’m still answering when you call.
uǝǝnΌ’ ǝɔɐǝd uı ʇsǝᴚ
By : @therealmwpoetry
2 days ago | [YT] | 2
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Styner's Studio Universe
III. WHEN THE TRUTH LANDED
They told us.
And something inside us
collapsed without noise.
There are details
the soul rejects on impact.
There are endings
the heart refuses to memorize.
We cried in pieces.
We screamed in private.
We went quiet in public.
Violence tried to finish her story.
We refused.
We clutched her laughter
because memory was safer
than truth.
From that day on,
grief stopped knocking.
It lives here now.
- @therealmwpoetry
2 days ago | [YT] | 2
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Styner's Studio Universe
SOFTLY
I don’t rush the sweetness.
I let it introduce itself.
The way your skin hums
before it’s touched.
The way your eyes
taste me back
before my lips ever arrive.
Every breath you take
sets the table.
Every glance
adds sugar.
I’m not here to devour
I’m here to savor.
Slow enough
to remember
where your pleasure lives.
- @therealmwpoetry
2 days ago | [YT] | 2
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Styner's Studio Universe
ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴋᴇ ᴘᴛ.3 (ɢʀᴀɴᴅᴍᴀ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ)
Oh my baby…
look at you.
If only you knew
how long heaven been clapping for you.
You didn’t just grow up
you grew through it.
Through loss that didn’t ask permission.
Through pressure that bent but never broke you.
Through nights you smiled in public
and cried where nobody could see.
In two more months you’ll walk across that stage,
clippers in your hands,
future wide open,
feeding your family
with a gift God placed in you early.
Baby…
that just takes the cake.
And next month
another son.
Mmm.
Life keeps trusting you with souls.
God don’t do that by accident.
I see how you love your children
how you stay,
how you soften your voice,
how you shield them
from the things that tried to swallow you whole.
That’s a man.
That’s my baby.
And that poetry of yours…
Lord have mercy.
You don’t just write words
you reach people.
You speak the pain
they never learned how to say.
You turn wounds into windows
and let light in for strangers.
Grandma smiles every time
someone heals because of you.
But don’t think
I don’t see you.
I still see that ache in your eyes.
The same one your daddy had
the day I left this earth.
That quiet grief that learned how to smile in public
and cry alone.
I know those tears sit right behind your laughter.
I know sometimes you keep moving
so you don’t have to feel.
But listen to me, baby
this moment is allowed to be held.
Joy don’t betray pain.
Happiness don’t erase where you came from.
Stand still sometimes.
Let pride rest in your chest.
Let laughter stay longer than guilt.
You earned this season.
You survived.
You provided.
You believed when it hurt to believe.
And if you ever forget who you are,
remember this
You are the man I prayed you’d become
before you even knew how to pray for yourself.
I’m proud of you in ways words can’t finish.
I’m with you in ways you still feel.
And baby…
Smile wide.
Cry if you need to.
But embrace this life.
Grandma ain’t worried about you.
Not one bit.
𝓘 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀.
𝓐𝓵𝔀𝓪𝔂𝓼.
— Grandma
By: @therealmwpoetry
1 week ago | [YT] | 2
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Styner's Studio Universe
A LETTER FROM CONCRETE ( Extended Version )
Son,
I’m writing you from a cage
where the lights never fully go out
and silence only comes in pieces.
Steel bars hum all night,
doors talk louder than men,
and time drags its feet like it got nowhere to be.
In here, they count us like numbers,
feed us through slots,
watch us sleep like we forgot how to be human.
Some days I feel boxed in like an animal
pace the cell, circle the same thoughts,
try not to lose myself between headcount and lockdown.
But my soul still moves, son.
Even behind concrete.
I carry a lot on my mind.
Regret sits heavy on the bunk beside me.
Memories replay louder than the TV down the tier.
Some nights I just stare at the wall,
trying to remember the man I was
before these walls learned my name.
I remember going to church alone.
Slipping past the congregation,
hands empty, heart shaking,
sitting in the back like I didn’t deserve the front.
Before I could form a prayer,
God lowered His voice.
Not thunder.
Not fire.
Just a whisper meant only for me.
He spoke to the place
the streets couldn’t reach.
Told me He still saw me
beneath the weight I was carrying.
Told me I wasn’t forgotten
just tired.
I felt my breathing change.
Felt my shoulders fall
like something finally believed
I was worth saving.
I was proud of myself that day.
Still am.
Because when a man hears God whisper
and doesn’t run,
that’s courage
learning how to stay.
Now my prayers sound different.
I pray staring at a cracked ceiling,
paint peeling like it gave up too.
I talk to God through steel and concrete,
through vents and locked doors,
hoping my words climb higher than these walls.
Every night, I lift you toward Him, son.
Say your name slow
like He might miss it if I rush.
I ask Him to cover you
where my arms can’t reach.
To guide you
where my footsteps stopped.
To speak to you softly
before the world starts yelling.
I write poetry on scraps in here.
Fold verses into my mattress,
hide prayers in between pages.
Every line is a window.
Every word reminds me
that my body is locked up,
but my spirit still knows how to roam.
I wish you could see how much I’ve changed.
Wish I could watch you grow
without glass between us.
Wish I could correct my mistakes out loud
instead of whispering them to the dark.
Don’t let my absence become your excuse.
Let it be your warning.
Your father is more than this cage
but this cage is real.
Some nights the tears come easy.
No surprise there.
Regret leaks through the cracks
when the block goes quiet
and all I hear is breathing and chains.
Still, I hold on to this truth:
even behind concrete,
a man can still find God.
Still find himself.
Still love his son
deeper than distance allows.
If God ever whispers to you,
listen.
Don’t run.
Stay.
Until the day I can tell you this
under open skies
instead of fluorescent lights,
know I’m fighting
not with my hands,
but with my heart.
I’ll see you again
above the stars.
Until next time,
Son.
— Dad
By: @therealmwpoetry
1 week ago | [YT] | 2
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Styner's Studio Universe
Poetry Project
“ Lil Johnny “ is a prison letter written for my homie . Keep your head up lil bro .
44
- @therealmwpoetry
1 week ago | [YT] | 1
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Styner's Studio Universe
ʟɪʟ ᴊᴏʜɴɴʏ
What separates us now
ain’t hate.
Ain’t distance.
It’s concrete that remembers names
and time that never asks why.
At night,
I still cry the same thug tears we learned young
just quieter now,
so my son don’t hear them
settling in my chest.
You put chains on the pain
so the world couldn’t keep touching it.
I put chains on my heart
so love wouldn’t keep leaving.
Behind your eyes
the same boy still knocking.
Inside my chest
peace still pacing.
We came up off the same pavement.
Same cracked courts.
Same basketball echoing
through summers that raised us.
Two boys jumping for rims,
thinking if we reached high enough
life would have to catch us.
My daddy spoke scripture over dinner.
Your daddy spoke survival on the block.
Both of them loved us.
Both of them were scared.
They just taught us
different ways to stay alive.
I bled for my brother.
I bled for my baby sister.
You bled for a flag
not for power,
but for protection.
You didn’t want violence.
You wanted to belong
without being disposable.
I pick up a pen
just to speak life again.
You picked up steel
just to feel hope again.
I remember us turning pain into smoke,
dreaming about saving our mamas,
pulling them out the ghetto
before the ghetto buried us first.
I remember us throwing footballs
to the youngstas,
trying to be the fathers
we never saw stay.
Trying to give them a future
before the streets introduced themselves.
I remember taking you to church.
You walked past the congregation
hands empty, heart unsteady
and before you found the words,
God lowered His voice.
Not thunder.
Not fire.
Just a whisper meant only for you.
He spoke to the place
the streets couldn’t reach.
Told you He still saw you
beneath the weight you were carrying.
Told you you weren’t forgotten
just tired.
I watched your breathing change.
Saw your shoulders fall
like something finally believed
you were worth saving.
I was proud of you then.
Still am.
Because when a man hears God whisper
and doesn’t run
that’s courage
learning how to stay.
Then life spoke my name.
I found out I was becoming a father.
Everything slowed down.
Every choice started echoing.
I moved southwest,
trying to choose life on purpose.
But you never left my prayers.
I begged God you wouldn’t make
one decision
time wouldn’t forgive.
Years later,
grief already sitting beside me,
your mama found me.
My uncle gone.
My spirit tired.
Then she said it
19 years.
Something in me collapsed
without making a sound.
Some pain doesn’t cry.
It just teaches you
how to breathe around it.
They told me you had a son.
I saw him.
Same eyes. Same fire.
I smiled through the ache
because a piece of you
made it past the walls
even if your body didn’t.
I miss you, lil bro.
Not the charges.
Not the rumors.
You.
The boy who dreamed loud.
The man who loved hard.
The brother who chose survival
the only way he knew how.
What separates us now
ain’t love.
It’s concrete and years.
But at night
I still cry the same thug tears for you.
Always have.
Always will.
44
By: @therealmwpoetry
1 week ago | [YT] | 1
View 0 replies
Styner's Studio Universe
𝘼 𝙏𝙝𝙪𝙜’𝙨 𝙋𝙧𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙧
Heavenly Father,
I come to You with my head bowed
and my heart heavy for my lil bro
sitting behind concrete walls
that can’t cage his spirit.
Touch him where the world hardened him.
Straighten what the streets bent.
Protect his mind when the nights get loud
and silence feels like punishment.
Wrap him in Your presence
when loneliness tries to claim him.
Stand guard when anger rises,
when memories knock,
when time feels cruel and endless.
Give him strength that don’t come from muscle,
but from peace.
Give him wisdom that don’t come from pain,
but from You.
Let his heart stay soft
in a place designed to turn men cold.
Let his faith be a mustard seed—
small, stubborn, unbreakable—
pushing through steel and years.
Heal what he never said out loud.
Forgive what he’s still learning to forgive himself for.
Cover him when I can’t reach him.
Hold him when my prayers are all I have left.
And Father,
when the days feel heavy
and the nights feel longer than hope,
remind him he is not forgotten,
not forsaken,
not finished.
Bring him home changed, not broken.
Humble, not bitter.
Alive in spirit, not just breathing.
I place him in Your hands,
because even a thug needs grace,
and even a cell can’t stop Your mercy.
In Your mighty and precious name,
I pray.
𝕬𝖒𝖊𝖓
- @therealmwpoetry
1 week ago | [YT] | 1
View 0 replies
Styner's Studio Universe
ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛ ʜᴏᴜʀꜱ
I love the way you explore yourself
like a secret you trust the night with.
Your touch moves with intention,
soft circles summoning heat,
a quiet rhythm only you know.
Your head falls back
eyes fluttering somewhere between here and heaven,
toes curling as if the moment
has learned your name.
I watch in reverence,
studying the art of you,
how desire gathers and overflows
slow, sparkling,
like champagne catching candlelight.
You don’t have to ask.
Your eyes speak in hunger.
Your breath calls me closer.
And I answer
with patience,
with lips,
with devotion.
ǝʌo˥ ʎW ɹǝʌǝɹoℲ
By: @therealmwpoetry
4 weeks ago | [YT] | 2
View 0 replies
Styner's Studio Universe
ꜰᴇʟʟ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴀʀᴍꜱ
Rest your shoulders,
let the weight of the world slide off
while I hold you steady in my rhythm.
Your breath changes when I lean in close,
lips trembling like you already know
what my touch is about to say.
Silk sheets testify
as your body answers mine
not rushed, not forced,
just two souls syncing in real time.
You pull me closer,
like distance has never been your language,
and the room hums with every shared movement.
Eyes closed,
we disappear into each other
not chasing the moment,
letting it take us.
A slow quake through the night,
the kind that rearranges constellations
and leaves stars out of breath.
Later
the storm quiets.
Your legs still remember my name,
my lips still chasing your smile.
We laugh softly,
foreheads touching,
like lovers who survived something beautiful.
Morning comes gentle.
Sunlight draped across your skin,
your head resting where my heartbeat lives.
I wake up knowing the truth
not just the night was mine…
but I woke up right next to my queen.
By: @therealmwpoetry
4 weeks ago | [YT] | 2
View 0 replies
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