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Do you know what it feels like when your dad leaves to go get the milk and comes back with a gun and some vengeance?
No? Well me neither.
See look, being funny is hard.
Some people don’t like your humor, some don’t appreciate it, and some think you’re funny but try to put your humor down anyway. 
I personally like the ones that just laugh and follow the joke until they get it, The ones that humor you while you humor them, The one’s that don’t hate on you because they not as funny as you, and I just like the ones that laugh with you, not at You.
 
I’ve made it my personal goal that when I insult someone, to make it so funny, they laugh at themselves too. Yeah, okay, it might seem a little mean, but if you can get someone to laugh at themselves, then you gotta be pretty good.

I’ve reached my goal multiple times but it’s boring sometimes, Just me and my jokes, locked in a display box, Only wanted when a laugh is needed, Only wanted in a silent room that craves noise, Only wanted in serious situations that are missing lightheartedness, Only wanted when convenient, but Convenient is almost never. I’ve gotten used to having a remote to tell me when to talk, Silent otherwise, but my delivery is on point. Shy, but my presence is well deserved. I keep to myself, dark humor is my forte, give a topic, jokes just start spewing. I do what I can to lighten the mood and my day, some don’t appreciate the racist jokes but I’m black myself, right? Some don’t appreciate my apparent lack of empathy and compassion, but that’s okay, that’s what makes me thrive. Accomplishment; Negative connotation or not. Doubt; It makes my jokes funnier.

While sarcasm isn’t always the best weapon it’s my only defense at the moment, And it’s been my only defense for a few years, now.

Coming out of the naïveté of 5th grade, facing anger and still held grief, I turned to something I could easily learn; I’m a quick study. It has developed over the years, it’s gotten perfected and mastered, It’s become a default instead of a front. I’ve become into this non empathic, uncaring, and self loathing being, and it’s easy for everything else to change, but it’s hard to change yourself, and your ways, and your thoughts, and your actions, and your attitude, It’s just hard to change you. 
I know it’s hard to try and change me.

Some of you are wondering why I’m like this, some of you aren’t, Most of you aren’t. But since you’re not here, and can’t testify to that fact, I’m going to tell you why I think I’m like this; I myself don’t really know but I have a few inquiries.

When I was 3 to 4, my mom died, and unfortunately it left me with something ruined inside. It wasn’t an accident, It wasn’t just a robbery, it wasn’t the death of a nobody, it was the death of a part of me. When she died, so did I. You see I changed once, It’s almost impossible to change again. I have a hard time explaining things to people, I try, but the words don’t come out the right way unless it’s on a piece of paper. So I took up poetry.

At first, it was dark, angry, hurt, binding, and most of all understanding. I take my pain and I put it into words that rhyme and trick your mind, make you latch on to every word, and to me, that’s exhilarating. It’s extraordinary for me to see my words have an impact, so sometimes, I can’t ever be quiet, And sometimes, That’s annoying, but it’s me. 
Every time after I say a poem, I look out to analyze some emotions, some blend of colors indicating what their thinking, I hear claps, I hear shouts, sometimes I hear praise, I never hear understanding. I never hear what I want to hear and sometimes I’m just scared to see a disgrace in the mirror, or a frown, as if they didn’t understand the meaning of what I said. If I have to explain it takes away its purpose, but I want you to hear me, I want you to listen. But sometimes, I want silence and solitude, I want snaps and nods, I want to be left alone with someone in my corner, but most of all I want freedom and closure.

That night, at home, in my bed, as gunshots rung thru my ears and her skull, I hid, like a coward. They had an agenda, I could tell, sometimes, I’m just too observant. My mom and my brother were in the same room, same place, same time, she was shot, she was fought, she was dead. He was…Alive and crying. If you ever found your mom on the floor of the stairs, what would you think of the vivid picture running through your mind, the young thoughts of “wake up” and “stop crying”. I tried for the phone, gone. I tried for her purse gone. I tried for her room, trashed. 

After that, I went to trial, and after that I was filled with anger. Filled with rage and lost. Filled with grief and despair. Nothing helped, Nothing changed, because nothing would bring her back.

I think that’s when I changed, when I realized, either it was my view of the world, or my naïveté. I realized that the world was cold so I had to be colder. I realized that to survive, you don’t need to live, you need to breathe, you need to be strong enough to withstand the rain, you have to be able to hold onto hope until no hope was available anymore. I needed something; I need my very own weapon. 

I found it.

You don’t know me, and I don’t really want you to, but my life has been hard, maybe yours has too, just because my front is the class clown or the funny side character that most people like, I have a narrative; And you have to know it before you Judge.



PS. Did you hear about the dull pencil? 

                        It was pointless.

PPS. Where do you find a dog with no legs? 

                Right where you left him.
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