Poetry: DARK, FAMILY, FEAR, HURT, PAINFUL, RHYME, and SAD.
The Man by Edward Matyja
Pills.
He took a plethora of pills.
A provided, pompous, plethora of pills being popped every day without stop. Properly placing the provided, pompous, plethora of petite, purple pills into his palm, and then popping them down his throat. He does it blindly, hoping in some way it will take away the pain. Maybe it does, and maybe it doesn’t. Only he knows the truth. Who am I to speak for him?
Alone inside is his constant state of mind; sublime at times, but otherwise…dead. End of sentence, but not of his. Damned with this disease, more than just his fight, but his family’s too. If he could only get the goddamn courage to tell them. Only he knows the truth. Who am I to speak for him?
Eat, sleep, chemo was all he seemed to know how to do. Thinning hair everywhere is when everyone got scared. When his silent, inner screams couldn’t be suppressed by the music he’d blare into his ears, with the headphones he’d wear. He’s scared, but only he knows the truth. Who am I to speak for him?
Drugs. A last resort for which he did not fall short. Hand written prescriptions became full-fledged addictions. A little glass “pipe” with a vertically bowed crater at the end, filled with a taupe-coloured dry plant slowly became his best friend. He would light it up, and pray to feel it burn away his pain for once. Instead, it just clouded the room in a thick, white shroud of regret. The cloud then became a smokestack of throwbacks, throwing his mind all out of whack. Then he broke. He could no longer take the stress, and became a recluse with a life derived of refuse, making it harder to connect. Who am I to speak for him?
I wish I could say there was more to this man than his struggles, his faults, but that is all that is apparent to me; it’s all I know and see. Who am I to speak for him?
I wish I knew more about this man I so humbly stumble my words over, but alas, my luck is that of a petrified four-leaf clover. Sometimes I feel like I’m in the wrong lane in this sick game we all play because this man contributed to half of my DNA, and I don’t even know his middle name; only about his pain.
But,
Who am I to speak for him?
Hell, I think I should be able to speak for my own father.
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