. . . and if i think too much, i might recall the time you help'd me before i could muster up the courage to ask for assistance; i want'd to be a man. . . untouchable. . . impenetrable. . . to show you i didn't need to cry. . .

weak men do not grieve. . .

and if i think to much, i might feel the pain in my heart when my son was kill'd by a bomb by an overzealous believer of a hero's afterlife, . . . and there wasn't enough of him left to fill a recyclible grocery bag; i want'd to seem resilient, like new steel wool. . . more pain more gain. . .

strong men do not feel pain. . .

if i process the years of my shallow life admir'd by those who want to be like me, i might be able to admit my errors in judgment, like when i did not spend time with my children when i had the chance, or tell my wife that i love and need her more than a corner office and a rubber tree plant. . . successful men can weather any storm at the top of my mountain of shame

please tell me why was i

too weak to grieve. . .
too sear'd for pain. . .
too good to be true ? 
 


  © 2005 cynth'ya lewis reed
all rights reserved.