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.