The Leftover Man

I gave the world my younger years,
My sweat, my hands, my quiet tears.
Built homes from bones and dreams from dust,
Held hearts like glass, in sacred trust.

Love, I poured it like a flood,
Painted pain in shades of blood.
A thousand gifts I gave away—
Now all that’s mine is shades of gray.

My canvas bare, my toolbox closed,
Muscles firm, but heart exposed.
The artist still lives in these veins,
But carries scars like weathered chains.

I tried to keep the center whole,
Held tight the threads, played every role.
To keep the family safe and near—
Their laughter close, their silence clear.

I fought for “us” when it got tough,
When words were few, and love felt rough.
But sometimes even strongest glue
Can’t hold a bond that’s split in two.

They say “Start over,” like it’s light,
Like fire still burns through every night.
But embers don’t always crave the flame,
And effort’s not a younger man’s game.

Could I love again? I don’t know.
There’s warmth still buried under snow.
I’m fit, I’m fierce, my hands still build,
But the soul inside feels half-unwilled.

Yet if she came, with eyes that see
The masterpiece inside of me—
Would I rise, and try once more?
Or just nod gently, close that door?

I have so much—but is it wise
To trade the calm for stormy skies?
Still, love is work, and I’m a man
Who’s built more life than most folks can.

I kept the fire, I fed the flame,
I stayed when others left the game.
For family, I bled and tried—
I’d do it all again with pride.

So maybe I’ll just wait and see—
If love returns, it earns its key.
Not desperate, but open wide—
A life rebuilt, with none to hide.