Stress killed me, it killed my mother. She maintains that still.
Her illness couldn't of helped, the worry it must have caused:
To abdicate a life because of that, is not only a burden for
My father, but also a massive issue for me; not discounting siblings.
Nuances of things past, gloat at my dysfunctional position,
Although, nothing is attained or released without prejudice.
Is this wicked sophistry I'm in ignorance of
Or just the tests that time presents?
Because of these problems, I find that kindness and generosity
Seem emotions with which I'm at most, ambivalent;
Token gestures, shallow movements, symbolise my outward self.
It's natural, in these cases, to realise that not only am I
The creator of this destruction; but also its designer.