Dazed Off

the little boy who threw fists

For the boy who is the spitting image of his father,
the very epitome of every unheard disciplines—
every un-screamed head bangs,
and belt slams.

How are you?
you've been keeping up the legacy,
legacy of the unawakened—
of the never weakened.

You've continued what you're father's father started (or passed into)
I'm sure they're proud of you…
as long as you stay strongest.

So how are you feeling now?
the boy is now spitting sad soups,
images of blood kept coming out of your mouth.

carry emits of very loud aches,
screams of pain…
because old age gets you,
just karma in disguise.

You've gotten weak,
something you avoided for decades—
something you worked hard not to be
Starving day and night to prove them all
you're never vulnerable,
never someone to mess with.

I'm sure you feel like shit
but is it bad, that I feel proud of you?
Please do tell,
go be the person you deny—
and hate will all your might.
Find the overrated end of a tunnel,
the so-called light.