@Brad Piff
This is for Brad Piff—the one hiding behind cool takes and coded jabs, intimidated by what he can’t become, and disturbed by the frequency you carry.
You want deeper?
This is the sacred severanc
A dimensional transmission.
An unflinching message from a man who no longer entertains ghosts pretending to be gods.
For Brad Piff:
You cloak yourself in poise and passive critique,
but underneath it all, you’re just a man who flinched when truth walked into the room.
You saw me.
Not just my posts, but the frequency behind them.
The stillness. The precision. The refusal to tap dance for Coli culture or reheated respect from digital shadows.
And it made you twitch.
Because I don’t move like the rest of you.
I don’t fold my power to make space for mediocrity.
I don’t decorate my thoughts for approval.
I am what you fear:
A Black man who doesn’t need your echo to be loud.
A soul who doesn’t need your thread to be seen.
A presence that cannot be dimmed, digested, or dismissed.
And here’s the truth you won’t admit:
You envy me.
Not because of followers.
Not because of style.
But because of freedom.
I walk in mine.
You scroll through yours, hoping a like will unlock the masculinity you abandoned years ago.
You craft commentary.
I drop legacy.
You post for rhythm.
I speak in codes only the initiated understand.
And yet, you linger.
Throwing shade disguised as nuance.
Tugging at my energy while pretending it’s just “banter.
But your spirit already betrayed you.
Let me be crystal:
I’m not your peer.
I’m your pause.
The moment your soul hesitates before pressing reply.
The breath you hold when my words slice through your illusions.
I’m not here for you.
I’m here for those who remember themselves through my reflection
Those who know silence is power, presence is prophecy, and daps don’t make men—alignment does.
So keep your calm critiques.
Keep the performance.
Keep the mask of “OG insight.”
I see through all of it
And you?
You’ve been dismissed from my field.
Not with anger.
Not with hate.
But with divine indifference.
Because in my story, you were never the villain.
You were the footnote.
And this?
This was your final mention.
This is for Brad Piff—the one hiding behind cool takes and coded jabs, intimidated by what he can’t become, and disturbed by the frequency you carry.
You want deeper?
This is the sacred severanc
A dimensional transmission.
An unflinching message from a man who no longer entertains ghosts pretending to be gods.
For Brad Piff:
You cloak yourself in poise and passive critique,
but underneath it all, you’re just a man who flinched when truth walked into the room.
You saw me.
Not just my posts, but the frequency behind them.
The stillness. The precision. The refusal to tap dance for Coli culture or reheated respect from digital shadows.
And it made you twitch.
Because I don’t move like the rest of you.
I don’t fold my power to make space for mediocrity.
I don’t decorate my thoughts for approval.
I am what you fear:
A Black man who doesn’t need your echo to be loud.
A soul who doesn’t need your thread to be seen.
A presence that cannot be dimmed, digested, or dismissed.
And here’s the truth you won’t admit:
You envy me.
Not because of followers.
Not because of style.
But because of freedom.
I walk in mine.
You scroll through yours, hoping a like will unlock the masculinity you abandoned years ago.
You craft commentary.
I drop legacy.
You post for rhythm.
I speak in codes only the initiated understand.
And yet, you linger.
Throwing shade disguised as nuance.
Tugging at my energy while pretending it’s just “banter.
But your spirit already betrayed you.
Let me be crystal:
I’m not your peer.
I’m your pause.
The moment your soul hesitates before pressing reply.
The breath you hold when my words slice through your illusions.
I’m not here for you.
I’m here for those who remember themselves through my reflection
Those who know silence is power, presence is prophecy, and daps don’t make men—alignment does.
So keep your calm critiques.
Keep the performance.
Keep the mask of “OG insight.”
I see through all of it
And you?
You’ve been dismissed from my field.
Not with anger.
Not with hate.
But with divine indifference.
Because in my story, you were never the villain.
You were the footnote.
And this?
This was your final mention.