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.
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.
I lost the ones I thought would be An immutable part of my life’s tapestry, Woven forever. Their sudden fraying left A hollow space, of laughter now bereft. A loss not just of presence, but of promised time, Of futures guaranteed, of permanence sublime.
I lost the endless, open channel’s flow, The casual intimate, the profound talk’s low. The message history remains, a silent tomb, But the living dialogue has met its doom. I lost the shared language, the inside joke’s release, The easy flow of thought that came with sustained peace.
I lost. And yet, a nagging question stays: How to reclaim it all through monumental days? More honest now, a deeper query rings: Do I want the fragments back, the broken things, Or is this void an opportunity instead, For a different, stronger rebuilding from the dead?
I am Socially Impaired, a deep deficiency, No compass for connection’s subtle geography. I cannot decode the rules that ever shift, To make a friend, or keep one from the drift. No knowledge of the delicate dance to start, Nor sustained effort to hold a drifting heart.
The world outside, a dizzying, digital torrent, Of career demands, and social lives hyper-currant. My mind, a labyrinth of static and confusion, Makes reaching out a Herculean illusion. The busy world’s quick rhythm, my slow, internal pace, Exacerbate the disconnect in this human space.
I am Socially Impaired, an alien I feel, A non-native in a world that seems unreal. Effortless for others, each social interaction Requires exhausting, conscious translation. Lost in this world of confusion, inescapable, vast, The mechanics of connection hold me fast.
What proper alchemy transforms the passing name, An acquaintance pleasant, into a trusted flame? What ritual’s required to solidify the friend, To confidant and pillar, on whom one can depend? How to tend this garden so it thrives, not withers thin? The vital lessons of these bonds were never written in.
In this struggle, I lost my authentic self’s deep call, My unique longings muffled by the noise of it all. Lost beneath the effort to be what others sought, My own desires indistinct, in the battles fought.
I lost the subtle nuances, the unspoken art, The reading of the body, the comforting hand’s part. The effortless mirroring of mood, the perfect timing’s grace, The tools that equip others to master social space. Without them, I operated blind in the dense fog, Lost in isolation’s self-doubt, like a log.
But then a tectonic shift occurred within the night, The fog dispersed, pierced by an internal light. The finding was no external, sudden grace, But a revelation born from that empty space.
I Found a core of unshakeable strength inside, No longer contingent on where others reside. A self-sustaining power, a bedrock I possess, To hold and to rely upon in times of stress.
I Found new forms of connection, soul-deep and true, With people who truly see me, and see me anew. Bonds built on mutual resilience, not proximity’s plea, These are the conversations that will not end for me.
I Found a powerful, relentless love, not on condition, A self-acceptance, a profound self-compassion. No longer scanning horizons for where worth has fled, I carry the source within, in the words I have said. It is a love that will not quit, a permanent estate, A fortress built from inside, sealed by my own gate.
It was not a solo journey, It was meant for both of us to keep. A path shared, a mutual destiny, A bond where promises run deep. We walked side by side, our footprints one, A single narrative of hope begun.
But the story broke, the path was closed, I stood on the chasm’s crumbling brim, As a silhouette, slowly transposed Into the inevitable, growing dim. The ‘we’ became an ‘I’, a hollow sound, In this desolate, forsaken ground.
Ashes and dust are all that stay Of the bright fire we held in trust, A barren landscape, grey today, Where life dissolved in the air’s cruel gust. The physical presence is no more, Leaving the grit of loss upon the floor.
Then voices come from the periphery, Offering platitudes in careful phrase. They say, “It is not personal, you see,” A necessary turn in cosmic haze. A consequence, unavoidable and stark, A wheel that turns and leaves no malice mark.
They speak these words, so cold and clinical, To soothe a wound they cannot comprehend. Do they expect a heart, now critical, To take this lie, this foolishness they send? To call abandonment ‘impersonal’ then claim It takes the searing edges from the pain?
It is a construct, fragile and designed To shield their own complicity from view. Lies and more lies are spun to leave behind Their failures of commitment, wholly true. The architects of ruin hide their face, Behind the veil of fate or bureaucratic space.
They see my silence and begin to doubt, Why I won’t trust their flimsy, weak assurance; They wonder why my quiet stays throughout Their clumsy, hollow show of endurance. Is their concern a genuine desire to know The depth of the betrayal’s silent blow?
Or is the query just a social art, A reflex uttered in a scripted play? Do they care for me, the broken, scattered part, Or am I just a failure they wish away? I let the fine, particulate dust stream in— The dust of forgetting, where true wounds begin.
I scan the empty space, a vacant stare, Where is the circle that was meant to hold? I know they exist, breathing their own air, In parallel worlds of comfort, brave and bold. Not here with me, not for me in this plight, Not in the core of this seismic, lonely night.
It was meant to be the two of us, you see, Walking the sunset, weathering the storm. The fundamental premise of our entity. But I was left alone, without the warm, Not just abandoned, but deliberately selected For solitary confinement, unprotected.
A cold clarity begins its slow, strange birth, The isolation may not be a curse, But a final, hard-won gift of self-worth. Maybe it’s best to sift these ashes terse, Unbound by promises that turned to frail dust. In this quiet, hard-won peace is final trust.
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.
I thought you were my certain shield, The one true, steadfast, loyal friend. A naive conviction, now revealed, That you would stand until the end, No matter the storm, the challenge faced, Your full resolve, completely placed.
I sought a fierce, unwavering vow, A pure defense, holding nothing back, A perfect pledge, as you know how, To guard my ground along the track. A hundred percent, my only plea, Undeniable fealty.
But that fierce certainty is gone, A shattered faith, a painful lie. I wake to realize at dawn, I lack the worth that merits why— I’m not enough, I see it clear, To warrant that support so dear.
The wound of ‘sorry’ is a slight, A shallow balm that cannot mend The hollow ache of broken light; It will not bring the hurt to end. For others hold a higher seat, They taste the loyalty I greet.
And so, the starkest truth remains, A bitter draught I must consume: To face the isolating rains, To walk alone within the gloom. I must accept, in every plight, I stand completely by my light.
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.
A Flower A flower blooms in the soft morning light, A silent promise of enduring might. Spreading its delicate petals, a vibrant hue, Out to the warmth, the life-giving sun, shining anew.
The celestial rhythm, the sun's grand ballet, It rises with hope, and then fades away. Each day a fresh chapter, a pristine, clean slate, A boundless opportunity, sealed by no fate.
Each new dawn brings a chance for profound, lasting change, To break free from confines, to truly rearrange. Each passing hour holds a chance for true greatness to bloom, To conquer the darkness and dispel all the gloom. Each single day is a new chance to reach for the dream, To fuel the deep passion, the bright, inner gleam.
The flower drinks deep of the sun's golden shower, Sustained by the light in this fleeting, sweet hour. It unfurls its beauty, a joy to behold and to see, Sharing its splendor with all, wild and free.
Be like the flower, resilient and bold, Let your spirit unfold, a magnificent story told. Spread your unique petals, your gifts and your grace, For the world to witness, in this time and this place.
