a boy is a battle.
he is full of fight with many foes...
within his eyes
are the fierce frights that has built a heaviness upon his lips.
of how Madam Monica modeled him into the giant pillar
that holds up many spouses,
and flood them with springs of satisfaction.
one stroke...
two strokes...
three strokes...
and a boy begins to choke
till he becomes a monster
made to feed on the groaning of a moaning girl.
another boy,
was a regular audience of a boxing match,
between his father and his mother.
and his soul has found failings
in forsaking the way he was trained to grow.
still he strives to melt his heart,
and remould it beneath his boulder.
and even I,
was a boy,
who was barely saved from a severe shatter.
for she drew my sword and it stood erect,
ready to kill.
and but for the timely thunder that rose to my aid,
I may just have been another lightning
that flashes by without a voice to bare me open.
but whom do we tell this tale to?
all because a boy must be a warrior,
he must stand strong till trauma look him in the face and flee.
for he must cover himself with steel,
and learn to camp his fear and withhold his horror.
a boy is a battle.
he is full of fights with many foes.
but the biggest of them all,
are the silent stabs swept underneath,
which no one is ever raring to hear,
nor bitter to believe.
#El_Magnifico™
ᎳᏒᎥᏆᏆᎬᏁ ᎰᎾᏒ ᏆᎻᎬ ᏴᎾᎽ ᏟᎻᎥᏞᎠ.
[[Published on Cultural Reverence Magazine]]
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