Can you shutthefuckup no.,

May you askith unto thyself, 
a quiet query in the hollow 
of a late afternoon, 
when the sun slants low 
and shadows stretch like doubts. 
 
Barricades of growth, 
are they built of stone or fear? 
A fortress against the soft entry 
of new understanding, 
or just the hardened shell 
of yesterday's defense? 
 
Animosity, 
a sharp taste on the tongue, 
a memory that refuses to dissolve. 
Possibly not vengeance, no, 
not the turning of a tide for payback, 
but the residue of friction, 
the tiny sharp edges left 
by a world that did not bend right. 
 
Possibly not, you whisper, 
to the mirror's cool reflection. 
A lightness you seek, perhaps, 
or just the absence of the weight 
that settles in the shoulders. 
 
Does this include possible not, too, 
in the counting of the cost? 
The things left unsaid, the chances 
unseized, the paths unwalked 
because 'not' felt safer 
than the messy bloom of 'yes'? 
 
In eyes, feel this longer, 
the slow unfurling of perception, 
a moment held still 
until the dust motes dance visible, 
until the true contour of the moment settles in. 
 
To appreciate me as a person, 
this seems a simple plea, 
yet it requires a dismantling 
of the carefully stacked boxes 
we use to store each other. 
To see past the function, 
the role played on the temporary stage. 
 
As for all is exhausting, 
the endless churn of becoming, 
the constant calibration of self 
against the demands of the light. 
Breathing itself becomes a labor, 
a conscious pull against gravity’s insistence. 
 
An then life your cause of, 
or perhaps purpose, 
a word too grand perhaps, 
for the small acts of kindness 
or the persistent showing up 
at the appointed time. 
Is the purpose simply this: 
the act of living itself, 
unadorned, unjudged? 
 
Is this life youme too not to me, 
a blurring of the lines, 
the 'you' and 'me' becoming porous, 
sharing the same tired air? 
A recognition that the struggle 
reflected in your gaze 
is the twin flame of my own quiet battle. 
 
You not two, 
but a single, complex thread 
woven through the tapestry of passing time, 
learning the shape of quiet acceptance, 
where 'possibly not' 
gives way to a gentle, open 'maybe.'


Know do how not to do not didn't don't know  how to shut a fuck up

rap, trap