He hides his pain behind a beaming smile,
The ache in his chest goes unacknowledged, completely hidden,
The daylight hours stifle his mood,
And when the darkness lands his tears fall unbidden.
**
He musters his responsibilities and buries his worry,
Heart wrenching days drill into his emotions,
Inside his head he’s the only one to hear his screams,
And his life consists of series of battled commotions.
**
Sandwiched between pretence and awareness,
Rules lauded upon his shoulders in a destructive phase,
The load cripples his strength although he doesn’t let on,
And the agony storms his determination into a fiery blaze.
**
Silence surrounds him when company is in sight,
But the roar of helplessness outcomes him when alone,
He struggles to win the battle he fights,
In an endeavour to ensure his cover is never blown.
**
He cannot afford to allow another to close in,
Running from commitment, intimacy and vulnerability,
Because they’d make it impossible for him to hide,
And would meld with the bases of his instability.
**
From the outside looking in, he has it covered,
He stands tall and convinces all he holds it together,
The commitment to inner strength is undeniable,
And the stability of which his sanity will tether.
**
He is admired by one and by all,
As no one understands his fine balancing act,
His public face is one he wears at all cost,
And the courage that takes is a hidden fact.
**
He fears any weakness he finds in solitude,
Because if it starts to unravel, he’ll fall apart,
He must remain hidden, his truth disguised,
Because to do different will break his heart.
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
If you enjoy this piece, you may enjoy this one too.
Please visit my website if you'd like more information on my newly published book, Battle Angel : The Ultimate She Warrior.
Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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More stories from Colleen Millsteed and writers in Poets and other communities.
One Minute to Noon
“OK, guys!” I screech over the macaw-like chatter in my sophomore English class. My students are sharing mementos they accumulated during summer vacation. The assignment is to interview each other and write an expository essay about another student’s treasure: Misty’s coquina shells and sand dollars from Florida, Ruth’s two Navajo pottery mugs from New Mexico, Roxy’s perfume from Paris, Kevin’s chocolate from Hershey Pennsylvania, a picador’s sword from a bullfight in San Fermin Spain, where one of my favorite students, Manny Pérez, ran with the bulls at festival.
By Lacy Loar-Gruenler6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
My heart breaks for him 🥺 I wish I can give him a hug and tell him that it's okay not to be strong all the time 🥺