A Different Kind of Strong

The thing is, you use it.
You let it, force it to help you become
something you have never been,
willing to fight
for yourself.

It is a different kind of strong
than you had when you were young.
Less brash, less seen, deeper
than you knew you had in you,
able to say “No, you will not rob me
of myself.” or “No, I too have worth.” or
“No, you will not rob me of joy.”

Oh, I crack. I hurt. I cry in pain. I writhe
when it is too much, but I do not surrender,
a soft kind of soldier, the kind you patch up
and send back into battle, knowing
he will not return until he is broken again, knowing
that he will never rest longer than necessary,
before striking his sword on his breastplate
and stepping back on on the field,
reclaiming joy.

About this poem

I spent the past three days in the hospital. Kidney stones. The doc came in, looked at my charts and said “You’ve had a rough two years.”

“You have no idea, doc.” I said. And he likely doesn’t. The real battle is within the heart and soul, to claim love, to claim joy, to claim the chance to say to the world “There is joy and you are worth it.”, to beat back the despair again, and again and always again.

Tom