Sensitive Gangsta

“Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars?”

I whisper it to the rhythm of waves,

their rocking motion matching my restless thoughts.

Every rise and fall reminds me of the plans I missed,

dreams that drifted off into the horizon.

Do I live in regret?

Should I?

The question ripples,

fading from gentle tremors to whirlwinds within.

“I could use a wish right now…”

Then the beat changes.

California basslines hit like sunbeams through my chest,

“Fresh outta jail, I’m hearing hoochies screaming,”

Tupac’s voice pulling me from the undertow of doubt.

I remember who I am—

a wanderer, yes,

but not lost.

A soul with scars,

but still a force.

I smirk at the shore,

feeling my crown straighten,

because beneath the softness of my scars,

beats the heart of a sensitive gangsta—

the kind who survives,

dreams,

and rises,

even when the waves try to drown her light.