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It was the hurt that made him good, from beginning to end as all things should.

It was his loss that made him great, and from his pain, kindness escaped.

It was a hole inside that made him wise, left to nurture light, where the darkness hides. 

It was rejection he feared, but most of all, his acceptance of others could stay their falls.

His loneliness crept in a broken mind, yet his hands, still mend, all they find. 

He was an empty shell, a barren husk, he abstained each day from drink and lust.

He was neither bold, nor loud, or proud, yet when he spoke, silent went the crowd.

It was his joy they could not break, his laughter, made rebellion, for their mistake. 

He was greater still, for all they'd done, his resolve now tempered, by those who shunned.

He became a light, as bright as day, it warmed the bones, for smiles he craved.

He became a hero, and he had no shame, no desire for wealth, nor compromise, or fame. 

They tried, they tried a thousand times, to make him feel, his kindness crimes.

They kicked and punched, that soul to death, yet still it rose to be it's best. 

It was the hurt that made him good, from beginning to end, as all things should. For we cannot know what dwell inside, let hope transcend where ego die, where boys made men, and soul survives. For he had not... bittered well....

Instead...he found himself whole...

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