#dedicated to us

[ellomello42]

[ekacananab]

If you start watching my snapchat story and dont watch it all the way through you are weak and I am personally offended 

[5secofshutthefuckup]

'Cause every night she studies hard in her room At least that's what her parents assume But she sneaks out the window to meet with her boyfriend

this is probably dedicated to all of us bc we're punk rock *rock and roll emoji which they dont have but really should* 

[corgiofthemoon-blog]

why isnt there a blog about the johndave royal family

[penofthegoldenchild]

W Chromosone (Dedicated To Us)

A lot of people distinguish themselves on the basis on whether or not they have either a Y chromosome or two X's. I've often heard the statement no matter what I am, I'm a man first. You can interchange that if you like. Me, I'm different. We're different.

We entered the world on the day we were born with the W chromosome. We cried not because of the air that fell into our lungs, we cried because everything we have to understand about the world was changed dramatically. We cried out of joy. A new stimuli, a new inspiration was granted to us, and we felt as though the world was at our fingertips. But like many of us, my world was changed the first moment the doctor said, "It's a boy." Then came the boxes.

I had two boxes, no, three boxes placed over me the first time I took a breath of the world's air. I was a boy, which didn't mean I was in love with the color powder blue. I was in love with her. My mother. And from that moment, I knew love and that was the first time I felt a love unconditional and that was the warmest box ever to wrap me in its embrace. I was her son. But I was also a junior, a box of darkness where the light only shone on one path, his path, and in that box, I was meant to remain in his shadow. My identity was already betrothed and there was no room for the W chromosome. I was also born with more melanin than my fairer people, and a certain toughness was expected of me. The first day I breathed the world's air, I was at war with the world around me, given no chance to learn about the flowing spectrum of emotions in my heart. I was born to be callous and fearless, given no choice but to be that. And that was the first day. My first three boxes. 

Another box soon came. Victim. Left by the same shadow, I didn't look at this box as gripping however, more as freedom for the darkness that shadow once casted over me was replaced by light, illuminating the opportunity for me to explore the sensitivities of my poetic nature, but yet in still that clashed with my third box. The Black box. Which in turn, led to another level to the victim box, where I was bullied not just by other kids who simply didn't understand but by schools and teachers who wanted to box me and the imagination gifted to me by my W chromosome into the 'good student' box. I interrupted their status quo. While music played in my ears, I couldn't hear their lectures. While my mind drew pictures, I could not draw conclusions to the answers they sought. I just wanted to read, but they wanted me to read their books. I wanted to write poetically, I was forced to write sentences. I fought and was bullied, tortured. I survived, but my W was made comatose. That was until the appearance of another box.

Some kids call it 'gangsta', my people call it 'thugging', I simply know it as the box that turned a tender little boy into a cold, young man. My W was revived by the rage in my soul. Sure the creativity that sparked inside of me was phenomenal, but yet in still a darkness inside of me stewing, deepening, shrouding the light that shone from my inner soul. Those were dark times. Every second thought seemed to belong to the devil. Every second sentence was filled with murder. Those were dark times. If you look into my eyes, really look into them, you can still the evil. The monster is still there.

But with many more boxes leading to many more prisons, I've learned to escape. I got the key. It's really simple once you remove your first box. First you have to remove the complexities of what makes you to find out who you truly are. And after removing the clutter, sweeping away the titles, shoveling off your insecurities, you find a buried baby, alive or dead depending on how long it took you to remove your first box. The baby only knows one thing. Truth. And it only whispers. When I first held my baby me, I held him close, listened close, and he said I was dreamer. I was a dreamer with the W chromosome. I've been writing ever since.