When I used to be seven,
I aspired to be Benjamin Tennyson,
Morphing into my favorite heroes,
Saving the day, again and again.

Fast forward to the year 2023,
I wear faces, not masks,
Hiding my pain from the world.
I'm afraid to show my scars from the battlefield,

Fearful that poets might romanticize my grief,
Portraying my wounds on canvases,
But failing to truly grasp the pain that I bear,
A complex journey, too intricate to compare.

As a man, I'm told that my pain
Must be airbrushed away,
Made palatable for society to embrace.
My pain must be told to fit the narrative of "huhuhahaha"
Else I'll be judged, crucified and misunderstood.

An old soul is a body that has seen too much,
A soul that dies before the body catches up.
The only unconditional love a man receives
Is from his mother,
And unfortunately, not all of us are so blessed.

When society isolates the man-child's call,
He seeks warmth in flames, within them to sprawl,
Until he's unearthed from that lonely gloom,
A phoenix rising, breaking free from the tomb.

~Gideon©