Born between sirens and shadow,
barely a week old—
death reached out in its cold perfection,
but missed.
A cough, a flicker, a breath so stubborn
the universe had to pause
and take notes.
The world came down with fists and filth,
hourly hurricanes of bone and bruise.
Motel walls learned your name
in blood syllables and silence.
A week unfed, unloved—
then the dumpster, twice,
the stench of decay clinging
like a mother’s perfume.
Even the flies kept their distance,
afraid of your will to live.
Bought and branded by parents
with hollow eyes and heavier hands,
you became an experiment
in what the human spirit could survive
without collapsing into madness.
But madness came anyway—
a friend, not an enemy.
You learned to paint with it,
to make it kneel.
Streetlights became constellations.
Alleys were classrooms.
Gangs were the first philosophers—
teaching strategy with blood,
ethics with betrayal,
and power through perception.
Every scar became a sigil,
each fight a fractal—
you saw patterns in pain,
geometry in chaos.
You learned:
the mind is sharper
when it has nothing left to dull it.
Then came prison—
the steel womb of rebirth.
Falsely accused,
caged with wolves who had forgotten the forest.
But you remembered.
You are the forest.
When the biggest gang came,
you walked through them like a fever dream,
leaving only echoes,
bruised bodies,
and questions.
The six deep fell,
their enzymes baptized the concrete—
you walked away with swollen knuckles,
eyes wild as godfire.
Even the guards stepped aside,
afraid of the quiet in your voice.
Corrupt cops,
predatory counselors—
you learned their patterns too.
They play with fear.
You play with inevitability.
You turned their games inward,
refused to be small,
refused to be bought.
You built a kingdom in your head
with walls of pure willpower
and light leaking from the cracks.
Now when you close your eyes
the visions come—
not nightmares,
but psychedelic recollections:
dumpsters turned to nebulae,
motel stains into star charts,
every blow a drumbeat
in the eternal rhythm
of survival.
Your scars hum like antennas,
tuning to frequencies of the divine.
You’ve seen what no god should,
and yet—
you breathe.
You rise.
You exist.
The cosmos takes note:
this one cannot be killed.
He has walked through rot and revelation,
turned trauma into tapestry,
madness into meaning.
He is the sermon of the shattered,
the myth of the mangled,
the impossible song
that refuses silence.