How tragic it is

The smartest one in the room,

reduced to being fed by a tube.

A shimmer of hope hid in the corner of the room,

along with our jackets, cold from the autumn wind.

You wrote to me with a stick, moving around the pebbles

"I love you"

The first time in 5 months, and the last time you ever truly were

my father.

There are few things that can't be fixed
by a coffee, and a couple cigarettes

My eyes disguise the pain I feel
An endless spiral of self deprecating thought
Stuck in my internal hell
The worst part is everyone thinks I'm okay.

Don't be surprised when I appear hollow,
when my mind encroaches on my life
a deep sadness I find hard to escape.

To be a man of character is to have felt,
to have lived beyond the pain, learned from it

My preoccupation with feeling happy has taken away from the life I would like to live.
A life where my energies are focused on the things around me,
rather than what's inside me.

Everyone has a personal hell, and I acknowledge that.
But, mine burns hot, the kind of heat that can make your breaths short, and your body exhausted.

It will be a long and difficult journey to become who I want to be,
but it will come,
with time,
with energy,
with patience.

Countless nights ,
The nightmares
the crying
the fear.

Plagued by an unforgiving hand,
served, not dealt.
this was not a matter of misfortune

It was clear the older he got
he would need to develop strengths he hadn't had before

Like understanding to hold back those tears,
no matter how painful
no matter how angry he was

It was not fair, he thought
it was not fair.

It was only when he became a man did he realize that nothing was fair
It was only when he became man did he realize he could cry when he was sad
It was only when he became a man did he realize he was robbed of childhood

When he became a man

he laid down in  bed
and although he was not yet done
He had no nightmares
he had not a need to cry tonight
and he had no
fear.