Without Passion.

Without passion,
I was lost in a sea of me,
closed off to the world like I
was my own main exhibit.
Without passion,
I lived in a fake castle
decorating the bottom of my main attraction.
See, I was trapped, and it was hard to consist
when your own hand wasn’t the one that fed you.
Without passion,
I was a slave to ideologies and styles that weren’t mine,
I lived on someone else’s time
instead of the minutes my mother gave me.
And I was driven crazy by the loneliness
that comes without passion.
I was falling fast.
I was just another exhibit hand stretched out reaching toward the other side of the glass
and there’s no way out but up.

Man, Fuck this fishbowl.

Without passion,
I was empty.
Empty and clueless because there was no way to know
the things that I was missing.
It was hard to listen to yourself when doubt makes you deaf.
Who was I to deny the truth of my skin laying heavy?
I wasn’t ready to accept being black
when I didn’t understand what it meant to be me besides the fact.
Without passion,
I was a stereotype.
With no direction, I was only given one direction to go,
and that’s somewhere I had told myself I never wanted to be.
Without faith in me, I became a victim of fate disposed
opposed to an agent of destiny working on my own agenda.
Without passion,
I couldn’t conceive what it meant to live outside my melanin,
because just as muscles, fat, and tendons stretched over my skeleton
like an outfit I couldn’t change,
the fact that I was breathing and couldn’t feel my heart beating made things strange,
because I was a husk of man incomplete,
from my head to my toes I was too weak to define the timeline tracing the contours of my future painted with utter pristine clarity.
Without passion,
I was just a cancer deprived of chemotherapy
with no cure in sight.

Without passion,
I was a slave to possibility,
and lacking drive, it was hard to feel alive
when I was working a nine to five
at a job I couldn’t stomach for the life of me
and I knew I’d die before I did that forever.
Promise that, or else my name doesn’t start with an S.
Without passion,
I was stagnant,
and as time went on,
and everything began to change,
I realized that the shit that kept me sane
had stayed the same.
I felt the colors of my life run together into gray.
Who I am today
is a man flawed.
But by the grace of God or whoever,
I am rich in color because my take on my own forever
is no longer a shell of what I think my life should be.
I am a man of purpose. Devout in reason,
without passion, I was denied the most important thing to believe in
and that’s not someone I pray to.

Not God.

Without passion,
I fell prey to fear and worry.
I was lost in doubt, and that made me angry,
which accomplished nothing.
I latched on to people because I had no power to hold onto something beautiful,
and I was trapped inside my vices
despite advice,
I partook of poison thinking it’d make me stronger
in this world where drugs aren’t used but abused in light of a life
with no direction.
With direction, I can only augment my consciousness further.

I walk with crutches no more.

I thought I was lost,
when really, I had nothing to be lost in.
I was lazy because I had no reason to fight off the hesitation.
Life’s climax is just the culmination of complications
and I wasn’t ready to see the peak
of what life had to offer.
Which was more than I knew how to understand.
How was I to be a man without reason?
Because a man without reason is flesh wasted.
Passion came to me in the form of creation
and was so close that I could taste it.

And when I did. All that was flawed was perfect.
And everything I doubted became clear.

Without passion,
there’s no point,
no purpose for me here.

Without Passion.

Shaquille Stewart

Montgomery Village, United States

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

Stemming from an argument I had with a friend regarding something I love. I asked myself then why I loved it, and when I found the answer, I also found this poem. That sounded cheesy…ugh..

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