His mother would say her son was too sensitive
While she complained about being beaten by his father
Comparing herself to the lady upstairs who
Got smacked around every other day
She must be doing something wrong
His mother would say
Somehow inferring
How lucky he should be to have
Such a good mother,
She must be doing something right

His father would say his son wasn’t focused enough
While he demanded everything be perfect
He could do the job on the job
But somehow it all fell apart when he got home
He held up his end of the deal
Made sure the rent was paid
Provided three square meals every day
If he had done everything right
Why was it all going so wrong?

The boy went to school every day trembling
Daydreaming his trauma away
Teachers would claim he was retarded
Wetting his pants and blushing shyly
Bullied by his classmates who had no clue
Locked in a bubble of his tears
Never free enough to cry openly
For he felt the shame of wishing wistfully
An end to his life so filled with horror
Pretty sure it was his entire fault

Wondering as an adolescent on the way of life
Girl would confuse him greatly
Never telling him truthfully
What they yearned from their young men
For fear of breaking his fragile spirit further
They danced the joy of their youth
While his steps revealed his unwanted solitude
He would grow more remotely behind
Not grasping the subtlety of his enigma
Of his live unlived

His siblings would suggest his motives selfish
As they too would struggle with their own malaise
Breathing with only one lung meant
Feeling half alert to the possibilities
So they could not allow themselves to believe
His maligned travails were honest and true
So he was the cast away from the family vessel
Set singly adrift in a stinging dingy barely floating
In the seas of depraved lies and illusions
To navigate without the means to determine a home

He would work meaninglessly mirroring
A life he has always known yet prayed to change
Women would turn away from his despondence
Unable to feel for his tale of woe and dejection
Preferring to be deceived by men of stage
The pomp of drama was sought over true love
His guilt did not allow him to think of women
As so much prey to be hunted in a primal manner
He had seen what this looked like growing up
The bloody bruises upon his mother’s face

He wanted to do things differently
But his society would fail to recognize
The wisdom of his story divulged
He would begin to consider that
Duplicity had to exist for so much pain
To go unwieldy on a daily basis
A compromise that is accepted by all
Which he refuses to partake
Looking for another road less trodden
Such is an angel’s despair

Copyright © Gilles Chiasson 2009

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