O’Shea Jackson’s Borg Cube

I feel so alone in my writing. What I expected is what I got. And when I go to wokshop ever weak, it is with dread. Every week I am filled with dread. Last night, I tore up my own writing. Only because their comments were superimposed on top of my words. To hell with these white people, sick of them. And their comments. 

Are like.

Like an emptiness that won’t go away.

Like: I’m writing for the reader. I don’t agree with that. I write for me, and in a way that maybe the reader can benefit. Hopefully I benefit. Look: get these people’s voices out of your head. 

I feel so alone in my writing. What I expected is what I got. And when I go to workshop every weak, it is with dread. Every week I am filled with dread. Last night, I tore up my own writing, because their comments were superimposed on top of my words. To hell with these white people, sick of them. And their comments. 

Who gave you niggas crackers power?

Sometimes I wanna shed a tear, but no emotions from a king. So I be, Weezy F. B.

Imagine you are me, or, more importantly, my pain. Or, I guess, my writing.

Imagine you have a cut. The skin around your cut heals. But it heals all wrong.

People don’t know what I mean when I say I don’t feel real.

The scarred tissue is extra sensitive. 

I mean exactly what I said. 

So much so that every time you simply touch the area, it’s like the wound tears open again, and again, and again;

I guess most people feel real. I guess most of the time I feel plastic.

and the pain peaks every single time.

Hollow.

Now imagine this wound represents your emotional sensitivity and how you deal with the world every day. 

Empty, where there should be filling. Nothing inside, which connotates negative space. Not to be confused with negativity. Not to be confused with a reactionary negativity. Meaning that maybe I’m getting really bitter whenever I think about writing because I feel I need to defend myself against the white gaze, the white attack, on these black words, on this black skin, on my black presence, muddying up their white space. I don’t know. 

“Your writing has such musicality to it.” Stop saying that, for the love of Allah, stop saying that.

Tropes, stereotypes, left and right. Understandings of who can do what and how. Limited. Limiting my ability. Limiting my possibilities.

Your writing is musical, but it needs a sharper critical lens. Stop saying that, please, get out my face with that.

I have to get out of my present, let me step back in time:

“The world is mine, nigga, get back.”

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