Across the sea, a jungle green, A young man fought, a sight unseen. My father, there, in Vietnam’s hold, A story etched, a heart of gold.
The weight of war, a heavy pack, He carried burdens on his back. The sounds of fire, the cries of pain, Aching memories, etched like rain.
But courage bloomed where shadows fell, He faced his fears and fought them well. For comrades’ sake, for duty’s call, He stood his ground, he gave his all.
And when he came back home at last, The war’s grim toll, a shadowed past. Unspoken battles, burdens deep, Yet in his eyes, a love to keep.
He built a life, a world anew, The strength he bore, shone clear and true. My father, soldier, quiet, strong, In him, I see where I belong.
This ode to him, a whispered pride, For all he faced, for all he tried. A son’s respect, a heart’s embrace, For the hero’s journey, etched on his face.
The walls are leaning inward, though the level says they’re straight, And the air feels thick and heavy, like a physical, dull weight. It’s a static in the marrow, it’s a ringing in the ears, A list of “what-ifs” blooming into catastrophic fears. The door feels like a mountain, and the phone a jagged stone, The mind builds up a prison that it’s crafted all alone.
But the kettle starts its humming, and the clock begins to chime, The world doesn’t pause its spinning just to give me extra time. So I breathe a shallow rhythm, count the floorboards near my feet, And find the tiny pocket where the fear and duty meet. It isn’t that the shaking stops or shadows go away, It’s the shaking hands that reach out to begin the work of day.
I carry it like luggage—bulky, frayed, and overfilled, Across the bridge of “must-do,” where the panic isn’t stilled. I take a single, trembling step, then find the strength for two, Doing all the things I need, while the fear is coming through. For courage isn’t silence where the anxious thoughts are gone, It’s the shivering soul that tells itself: regardless, carry on.
I must strongly object to the pervasive and deeply problematic use of militaristic metaphors when discussing cancer and the individuals affected by it. Phrases that have become deeply ingrained in our cultural lexicon—”They are a cancer survivor,” “They lost their battle,” or “They won their battle”—carry a harmful and often painful subtext. This war-like language, framing a biological process as a personal combat, inevitably implies that the outcome—survival or death—is purely a result of the individual’s effort, willpower, or “fighting spirit.”
This is not a purely academic critique; it is profoundly personal. My mother was diagnosed with Ovarian cancer, and she passed away when I was just eleven years old. To this day, every time I hear this kind of terminology used, I feel a visceral, sickening dread. The devastating implication embedded in these phrases suggests that to say someone “lost the battle” can be interpreted as meaning my mother didn’t fight hard enough to live, or that her will to survive was somehow weaker than that of those who are deemed “survivors.” This places a moral judgment on a medical outcome.The Inaccuracy and Cruelty of the Narrative
This narrative is not only insensitive; it is medically inaccurate and inherently cruel. It functions to shift the blame for a biological failure onto the shoulders of the patient. Cancer is a complex, brutal, and often indiscriminate disease, not a fair fight where sheer determination dictates the victor. Its progression and the efficacy of its treatment are dictated by a multitude of factors entirely outside a patient’s control:
Genetics and Biology: The specific mutation, the tumor’s aggressiveness, and the patient’s individual biological response to therapy are paramount.
Access to Care: Socioeconomic factors, proximity to specialized medical centers, insurance coverage, and the ability to afford necessary care play a critical, often life-determining, role.
Effectiveness of Treatment: The simple fact is that current medical science does not have a cure for every cancer, and sometimes the best available treatments fail.
To suggest that a patient’s sheer willpower can overcome these biological and systemic realities is a dangerous and emotionally devastating distortion. It is a form of victim-blaming that compounds the suffering of the patient.Diminishing Suffering and Compounding Grief
By labeling those who succumb to the disease as “losers” of a “battle,” we perform a profound injustice. We diminish the incredible suffering they endured, invalidate the immense strength and endurance they did exhibit through grueling treatments, and unnecessarily compound the grief of their loved ones. This language creates a false, black-and-white dichotomy where survival is heralded as a victory of spirit and death is tragically mischaracterized as a personal failure of will.
It is vital that we consciously and collectively adopt a more compassionate, realistic, and respectful vocabulary. We need a language that acknowledges the brutal reality of the disease without assigning moral or personal failure to those whose bodies, despite their strongest will and every medical intervention, could not withstand it.
We should move away from the language of war and toward the language of support, journey, and resilience. We should focus on:
Supporting individuals through their medical and emotional experience.
Celebrating their resilience and the strength they demonstrate in facing a severe illness.
Respecting the outcome of a fight that was never on even terms.
A Broader Call for Linguistic Change
The “battle language” is not confined only to cancer; it is pervasive throughout the medical community and public discourse when discussing many chronic or life-threatening illnesses. We see individuals “fighting” heart disease, “struggling” with addiction, or “conquering” mental illness. This pattern of militaristic framing needs to be fundamentally changed within the medical community, journalistic reporting, and everyday conversation.
Moving forward, our goal must be to foster a vocabulary that recognizes the complex interplay of biology, medicine, and human endurance, a vocabulary that is rooted in empathy rather than judgment. We must honor the full spectrum of human experience with illness—the strength, the pain, the medical realities, and the dignity—without defaulting to a cruel metaphor that punishes the dead and pressures the living.
The Uneven Field
The words are heavy, like a soldier’s gear, But she was not a general or a scout. I was eleven, drowning in a fear That militaristic metaphors leave out.
They call it a “battle,” a “war” to be won, A “fight” where the spirit must lead. But what of the mother, the work left undone, When the body is all that can bleed?
If survival is victory, what is the grave? A “loss”? A “failure” of will? To say that she “lost” is to say she wasn’t brave, That her heart wasn’t ready to thrill.
But biology isn’t a “fair-weather” friend, And cells do not listen to “fight.” It’s genetics and access that dictate the end, Not how hard she gripped for the light.
I carry the “visceral dread” in my bones, The “sickening” weight of the phrase. The “victim-blaming” in hushed, somber tones That haunts all my motherless days.
She didn’t “lose.” She simply endured A “journey” no armor could shield. A “resilience” that never was truly assured On such an uneven field.
Take back the metaphors, sharpen the tongue, Find “compassion” instead of the “sword.” For the girl who was eleven, whose world was unstrung, By a “battle” she couldn’t afford.
The lines were drawn in quiet ink, A map of “yes” and “stay,” I feared the bridge would surely sink If I turned the other way. I held my breath to keep the peace, A ghost within the room, Fearing that my own release Would seal a friendship’s doom.
I thought the cost of being me Was more than they would pay, That if I spoke, they’d turn and flee And leave me in the gray. But then the weight began to gall, The “jokes” that left a sting, The way they made me feel so small While I gave everything.
So I stood up, a sudden flame, And watched the masks descend, I finally spoke my truth, my name, And waited for the end. They met my strength with cold disdain, With anger and with slight, They saw my joy as their own pain And walked into the night.
And in the silence left behind, The truth began to bloom: The friends I was so scared to find Were never in that room. For if a boundary breaks a bond, The bond was but a thread; Of people who are truly fond, There’s nothing left to dread.
If standing up meant losing them, I lost a heavy chain, A false and hollow stratagem That only offered pain. The ones who leave when you grow tall Were never yours to keep; It’s better that the shadows fall So you can finally leap.
I built a bridge of patient, weary years, A silent span of quiet, chosen words, The mortar set with dried and vanished tears, A testament to battles, not rewards. My hands I offered, strong and open wide, To hold the weight of your erratic sphere, To stabilize the chaos you supplied, Yet only met a storm, a boundless fear. My effort was but dust upon the breeze, Against the wind of your profound unease.
When your world tilts and loses all its grace, The guttural cry of “holy hell” defines The atmosphere of this abandoned place, No longer haven, but a field of mines. A sudden, unexpected fire starts, Consuming fragile things that stood its test, Leaving behind a jagged, broken heart. With cruelty, you push me to the crest, The edge of sanity, my failing might, Expecting me to hold while you ignite.
I tried, desperately, to be the ground, The immovable foundation in the shake. I absorbed the shocks where steady peace was found, Withstood the tremors for your troubled sake. But now the space between us is a void, A profound, echoing, desolate expanse, Where kindness’s tender seed has been destroyed, And understanding lost its saving chance. Now only the choked vine of unyielding rage, And your consuming need across this stage.
I’ve studied your map of pain for far too long, Memorized the texture of each emotional scar, Anticipating where the wound would throng, An unwilling cartographer of your war. But in that process, I forgot my name, Eclipsed by roles I was compelled to fill: Your punching bag, the target of your flame, Your safe harbor, your shore against the chill. But that era’s ended, clarity now bright, I won’t be your refuse, your emotional blight.
The door to this shared history is heavy now, Weighted by expectation and old despair, But it is closed, with a final, solemn vow. The work I poured is starkly laid out there— Not as a failure of a loving mind, But as an investment that was misguided, deep. I failed no duty, I was not unkind, I simply chose myself, the promises to keep To me. I recognized the point of no return, And in that closure, finally, I learn.
The shadow falls, a failure in my sight, Disappointment’s echo, haunting day and night. Regret’s cold hand upon my waking thought, A hollow dream, the battle that we fought.
A profound, persistent ache resides within, A deep, visceral wound where grief begins. Each time the news arrives, a soul has gone, The numbers climb, yet tragedy lives on.
For those now lost within the heavy fog, This deep despair, no fleeting shadow slog, It raises questions that torment the soul: How could we shield them, how regain control?
What could I, personally, have done to reach, To pull them back, beyond the final beach? Why do such vibrant lives, with potential vast, End in this final, devastating, broken blast?
The pain, a sickening, immediate jolt, A punch that leaves me breathless and unbolt. Another one lost, a cycle we can’t cease, The repetition numbs, yet sharp remains the piece.
A desperate cry: What can be truly done, When the tide of loss engulfs the rising sun? We must find answers, a pathway to prevent, A strategy of hope, with all our power lent.
What can we do, right now, with urgent plea, To stop this cycle of futility? They were too young, their promise yet untold, A song cut short, a story left untold.
Reduced to cold, impersonal distress, A public crisis we cannot suppress. The lives they were, a silence left behind, Deafening echoes of the best of humankind.
When darkness falls upon a soul you know, And misconduct is the seed that they sow, When actions pierce the better self you see, And they depart from how they ought to be, A higher call demands your swift response, Beyond the simple bitterness of offense.
Specifically, when they project their strife, Inflicting turmoil on another life, When pain and discontent are thrust outside, And unkindness is the path where they ride— And when their negativity is aimed at you, The target of the anger they accrue— The time for action is not a fight, But deep engagement in the spirit’s light. The clear command is given from above: You should pray. Your prayer is bound by love.
This is a prayer with purpose dual-faced, For strength to face the hurt that is embraced. Pray earnestly to guard your inner soul, For wisdom, grace, and to achieve your goal: To stand against injustice, firm and true, Lest roots of bitterness take hold of you. And simultaneously, with fervent heart, Pray unceasingly to heal their broken part.
Petition for their spirit’s restoration, For sight, repentance, and illumination. Pray for their clarity, that the dark fog That clouds their judgment might begin to jog. May truth reveal the nature of their deed, The bitter pain that plants the hurtful seed.
Your prayer’s an act of purity and might, A divine request for what is good and right. Pray that the toxic urge to hold offense, All hatred, vengeance, and poor recompense, Be fully purged from where your feelings lie. Pray that true peace, the peace that reaches high, That surpasses knowledge, may reside within, A shield against the chaos and the sin. And pray for grace to grant them full release, To find compassion for their lack of peace, Recognizing that the hurt they impart Is but a symptom of their wounded heart.
You know the truth; denial finds no space, A certainty of wrong you have to face. They operate outside their healthy sphere, Not as the self they ought to hold so dear. You know they act as wounded, lost, and frail, Beyond a doubt, they stumble and they fail. Given this truth, this knowledge you possess, Your duty is to fully intercess. You need to pray.
This sacred work requires commitment strong, Independent of who says that you are wrong. You need to pray, though you are ostracized, Misunderstood, or wholly unadvised. You need to pray, though they who cause the woe Discourage faith and bid your efforts slow. Resolve within, in the core of your deep soul, That you will never yield to their control. Let your prayer be a sanctuary, ever near, A tireless beacon, banishing all fear, For your own soul, and for the troubled one Whose inner struggle means the harm is done.
The tapestry of life has threads of gloom, Where toxic darkness drains the spirit’s bloom. Some things in life are toxic, subtly sly, Environments that stifle, habits that deny Our health, or institutions built on lies— The silent poisons that before us rise.
As harmful are the ties that bring us pain, Some people in life who are toxic, they remain Emotional vampires, constant critics cold, Passive aggressors, stories to be told Of manipulation, thriving on the storm, Suffocating potential, leaving us worn.
Beyond the things and people we may face, Some activities are toxic in this space. The compulsions offering distraction’s grace, But long-term regret we cannot erase: The relentless pursuit, the endless scroll, The cycles that entrap and take their toll.
So why do we still use these things we know? Is it comfort, fear, or letting inertia grow? And why do we still talk to these people too? Is it guilt, obligation, hope that’s often through? Why on the altar of connection’s name, Do we sacrifice our peace to feed their flame?
If the outcome’s negative, why do we stay? Why do we still do these activities every day? The self-sabotage, the deeply set-in need, Why do we torment ourselves by doing the same things repeatedly indeed? A closed, agonizing loop of self-inflicted harm, Where inertia holds us in its harmful arm.
But the moment of reckoning demands its due, A crystallizing truth, unflinching, strong, and new: Enough! I am done! a line across the sand, The absolute refusal, a sovereign command. To the source of the poison, the message is clear, Take your toxicity and your self-righteous attitude and leave me here.
Leave me be, so I can move on and find my peace, Grant me the space for wounds to heal and cease. Leave me be and stop pretending you ever cared, The charade of concern, its hollow core laid bare. Leave me be and let me live my life as it should be, Unburdened by your shadow, finally free.
My future is my own, not for your design, Leave me be and stop pretending that you ever cared is the final sign. Severing the chains of a love that was a lie, Walking into freedom beneath a clear, blue sky.
The words, sharp and unwarranted, slice through the fragile shell I built. Tiny, invisible blades, their power immense, carving my heart into scattered, irreparable pieces.
My carefully constructed dreams, ambitious plans, vital goals— all crumble before this onslaught, a lifetime of building reduced to dust. My essence, fractured, lies on the cold floor.
Why do these ephemeral sounds, mere vibrations in the air, hurt so? Why grant them such devastating power, to tear the fabric of our being, to leave us utterly immobilized?
With a deep, shuddering breath, I rise. Muscles protest, heavy with despair. I kneel, picking mangled, bleeding pieces from the unforgiving floor, cradling the remnants, a silent cry.
I try, with feverish intensity, to mend— reaching for glue, tape, harsh staples. But none of them hold. The cracks are too deep, the breaks too fundamental. A heart shattered by words cannot be fixed by physical objects
Again, the haunting question returns: Why do I give words this power? Why allow such deep, lingering pain?
Yet, the act of kneeling has shifted something. I stand up, not whole, but resilient. I place my broken, but still beating, heart back into my chest, and with a final act of defiance, I dust myself off.
The reality remains: Words possess the power to tear us down, to reduce us to rubble, weapons that wound the soul.
But words are not solely destruction. They possess the capacity to restore. A single, well-placed phrase— of kindness, encouragement, or understanding— can be the foundation upon which we rebuild.
Love, in its purest expression, is the ultimate healing force, articulated through sincere, positive words, what ultimately saves us all.
Words can tear you down. Words can also lift you up.
Choose your words with the highest intention. Strive always to lift a spirit, to reinforce worth, to acknowledge a presence.
Never fail to be kind. Kindness is the shield against the world’s harsh words, the balm for its inflicted injuries.
Remember this immutable truth: Words are a powerful, double-edged sword. They can drag someone into the deepest pit of despair, or elevate them to heights of strength and hope.
Use this profound tool with meticulous care. Wield your words to heal, to encourage, and to restore.
Forgive me
Maybe I am to blame,
Maybe it was me this time.
We think about forgiveness and giving it
But how to do forgive yourself?
How to do you heal and seek guidance
From the one you have wronged
How do you both come to terms and move on.
Move on to bigger and better.
Move on to things that matter.
And create once again
How do we do this?
