Solomon David's Blog

Death Is Calling

By Solomon David

Don’t give me the damn speech.
I ain’t killing myself —
it ain’t like that.
It’s just a thought, a shadow passing,
a whisper at the edge of a long, tired day.

If I died today, be real —
none of y’all would care the way you claim.
Sure, a handful might cry,
some might even put on a damn show,
but not a single one of you
ever bothered to ask the questions that mattered.

Not one of you
ever stopped long enough
to see the man behind the mask,
behind the wildness,
behind the stupid shit I did just to feel alive.

You watched the chaos
but never once wondered
if maybe I was dealing with something heavy,
maybe I just needed one person
to give enough of a shit to look deeper.

But no—
you judged me.
You talked behind my back.
You lied, cheated, dug, stole, manipulated,
and I took it…
and took it…
and took it…
until my soul felt like chewed-up leather.

Yeah, I’ve lied.
Yeah, I’ve done wrong.
But y’all?
Y’all take the damn cake.
You perfected betrayal.
You mastered pretending.
You graduated summa cum laude in fake love.

It was right in your face,
FOR THIRTY-SIX YEARS,
and none of you dumb fucks cared enough
to look past the smoke and see the fire
burning me up from the inside.

So when that day finally comes —
the day I take my last breath,
whenever God says it’s time —
don’t cry for me.
Don’t pretend.
Don’t show up wearing memories
you never earned.

Don’t act like you knew me,
because the truth is:
you never did.
You never tried.
You only knew the mask —
not the man wearing it.
Not the heart beneath it.
Not the pain stitched into it.

Death might call my thoughts sometimes…
but it’s not because I want to go.
It’s because I’ve spent my whole damn life
surrounded by people
who never cared enough
to ask why I was hurting
in the first place.

Love Ain’t What Y’all Pretend It Is


Love is a sick game.
Let’s just call it exactly what it is.

It’s a word people toss around like loose change — like it’s still worth something in this day and age.
But it ain’t.
Not to me.

When most people say “I love you,” what they really mean is:
“I’m sorry I hurt you… again.”

And here’s the part that burns:
the people who hurt me the worst
were always the ones who swore they loved me.

Family, friends, people I let close —
every one of them taught me the same damn lesson:

Love is just a word some folks use right before they break you.

So let me say this loud and clear:

**Don’t tell me you love me.

None of you know what it actually means.**

Don’t throw that word at me like it’s healing.
Don’t spit it out like it’s holy.
Love ain’t saved me from nothing.
Love ain’t protected me from nobody.
Love ain’t kept a single promise it made.

And that’s fine.
Because I don’t need it to survive.

I’m still gonna do me.
I’m still gonna live my life the way I want to live it.
I’m still building what I’m building, writing what I’m writing, breathing how I breathe.

If you see me out in the world and pretend you don’t know me?
Cool.
Do that.
I release you from every expectation.

Because if your version of love looks like betrayal, poison, disrespect, silence, manipulation, mocking, abandonment —
keep that shit.
I’ve already had enough of it to last a lifetime.

People say love heals.
But all I’ve ever seen it do is bruise, scar, and destroy.

So no — I don’t “love everybody.”
I’m not built to fake it.
I’m not bending myself for anyone’s comfort.

I’m just honest enough to say out loud what most people whisper inside:

If this world’s version of love is all you’ve got to offer,
I don’t want it.
I’ll survive without it.
I already have.

— Solomon David

Pain don’t mean the same thing to me that it does to most people.
Some folks feel pain and flinch.
Some folks feel pain and run.
Most people say, “Damn, that hurt.”

Me?
I feel pain and think,
“Maybe I could do that again.”

Whether the pain is physical or psychological—it don’t even matter.
My mind and body got wired in a way I still don’t fully understand.
Like every wound was training.
Like every scar was a lesson.
Like pain wasn’t just something that happened to me…
but something that shaped me into exactly who I became.

I’m not proud of it.
But I’m not ashamed of it either.

There are days I’ll run a cold blade across my skin—not to cut, not to bleed—just to feel something.
Some people feel alive when they laugh.
Some feel alive when they love.
Me?
I feel alive when my nerves remember what survival feels like.

My emotions don’t work the way other people’s do.
I don’t process hurt like a normal person.
I don’t break the way I’m “supposed” to.
And that’s why this book—Nobody’s Son—might be called a fictional memoir…
but it’s really a window into the truth.
A peak into the real story.
The real trauma.
The real boy I used to be and the man I became because of it.

And if someone asked me,
“Would you do it all again?”
My answer would be simple:

Hell yes. In a heartbeat.

Because broken ain’t always bad.
Sometimes being broken is the best thing that ever happened to you.
Sometimes broken is the birthplace of strength, survival, instinct, and identity.

Truth is, I don’t even know why I’m writing this right now.
Maybe I’m tired.
Maybe I’m finally honest enough to say some things out loud.
Maybe I’m shouting into a room where nobody’s listening.

And maybe that’s fine.

Because whether anybody hears me or not…
whether anybody reads this or not…

I’m still here.
Still breathing.
Still becoming.

And I’ll say this with my whole chest:

I don’t owe the world anything — but the world damn sure owes me respect.

— Solomon David

I didn’t write Nobody’s Son: Beaten but Unbroken to sound good.
I wrote it because I had to.

Every word came out like blood on paper. It’s not a fairytale, it’s not polished pain—it’s truth. I grew up fighting to stay alive, trying to make sense of a world that kept breaking me and calling it “love.” This book is what happens when a child learns to survive before he learns to dream.

Writing it forced me to walk back through everything I tried to bury. The fists, the fear, the foster homes, the silence. But it also reminded me of something stronger than all of it—the will to keep breathing.

Now that the book is out, people ask me, “How’d you survive all that?”
Truth is, I didn’t always. Parts of me died along the way. But the parts that lived learned to fight smarter, to forgive slower, and to never, ever stop telling the truth.

If my story helps one person pick their head up, or one kid realize they ain’t alone, then it was worth it. This is just the first step. There’s more to tell, more to heal, and more to build.

Still breathing. Always.
— Solomon David