Whittled The Way I'm Supposed To Be

[imaginingjarpad]

He was just six
when he handled
his first shot-gun,
little fingers wrapping
around the trigger,
his father in the background
laughing about the gun
being twice the size as him.

at 11 he learns about
the sorrows that confined themselves
somewhere at the pit of his stomach,
only coming out when they felt deemed to,
crawling and scratching at his insides;
hissing words of disgust in his ear -

tainted boy.

He’s strong,
not necessarily built strong
with features and muscles,
but his heart is of one that could break
through a brick wall, 6 foot in depth
and it’d still be beating;
the pump of blood
pooling through his wanting stream.

He’s learned so much,
and he’s carried so much,
and he is a just a boy,
but the mask he flaunts
is of a man.

At 33
his body has become frail,
whittled and weakened.
His heart doesn’t pump as it used to
and his such eager soul
has dispersed along the passing roads.
Times have made him feel insignificant
but he is anything but.

He may feel weak,
and his build may be feeble,
but he is still just a boy
searching for hope of his existence.