Autowind
Short fuse. Cold nights.
Raised on East side heartbeats and west side fights.
Mama prayed in the kitchen,
while the city taught lessons
with rusted streetlights and late-night confessions.
I autowind my mind back—like cassette tapes
popped in a Crown Vic dash
when uncles told stories
that smelled like Black & Milds and fresh grease.
Memory don’t skip when it’s pain on repeat.
They thought I’d stall out—nah.
I was born with jump cables for veins,
hustled through potholes,
turned evictions into poems with Detroit slang.
God gave me rhythm; the devil gave me rage.
Both live in my pen when I step to the page.
I autowind like it’s built in my bones.
Auto for the motion,
wind like the spirit that won't leave me alone.
Even broke, I stay driven.
No keys needed—just pressure and pain.
Push start soul.
Ink bleeds like it's tryna explain.
See, I done loved and lost,
slept in shadows, fought for light.
Heart broke so loud,
it echoed through sleepless nights.
But I autowind—back through the wreckage,
past friends who ghosted,
and lovers who used my dreams as leverage.
Still here.
Still spittin’.
Still healing in public with precision.
I don’t pause—I rewind on purpose,
to see what built this version.
Every scar I earned
is part of the sermon.
And when I rise,
ain’t no climax,
just a quiet breath and a soul intact.
That’s how Detroit kids come back.
Autowind.
No hands on the dial,
just time and survival.
Let it loop.
Let it play.
This life is my vinyl.
