Poetry is my passion

Poetry is my passion, Empathy is part of my job; it is a deliberate choice. We just must tell the stories of others Who can’t defend themselves? He is an unpopular character, this old man, Who sits and draws cartoon characters Of all his childhood abusers, While blasting their names. In memories of the dearly departed, He would say, "Those bastards!" He mentioned he felt like crying, But he wasn’t going to cry, Because if he did, He might not like the taste of his tears. Those loose cells in the tears They are mostly from his mother and father. It has been several weeks now. I haven’t seen my old friend Eugene, Hospitalized for unknown pain. I truly miss our dayroom chats, Especially when his face lights up As we speak about his Aunt Harriet And his Uncle Jack: her favorite cookies, His fishing trips by the lake— Just the two of them. He never spoke fondly of his mother or father. His father only advised him to masturbate To ease the pressure, his mother advised him He ran as fast as he could from the bullies. His therapist kept reminding him That he wouldn't amount to anything, So, he hated them for not believing in him. He wished that he had never been born, Because all his life He was shunned and scorned. I have a soft spot for my old friend. Sometimes we speak of poetry. I gave him my favorite pen So that he could write out his feelings. Poetry is my passion, Empathy is part of my job; it is a deliberate choice. We just must tell the stories of others Who can’t defend themselves?