blaming myself for it
“Work harder.”
“Heal.”
“Man up.”
“Fix your mindset.”
As if my mind was not built
inside a storm
before I even knew my own name.
Something happened early.
Too early.
Before I understood manhood.
Before I understood money.
Before I understood fear.
The walls inside me
were already learning defeat.
Now I am thirty-five,
standing inside consequences
that look like laziness to strangers
but feel like chains to me.
Bills arrive like witnesses.
Hunger speaks louder than prayer.
Sleep feels like a hiding place.
Morning feels like punishment.
Every day,
another comparison.
Another man providing.
Another man building.
Another man moving forward
while I stand still
like a broken clock
watching time abandon me.
People say,
“Your life is in your hands.”
But what happens
when the hands themselves
were taught weakness?
What happens
when survival becomes a mindset?
When fear becomes identity?
When failure stops feeling temporary
and starts feeling like truth?
I walk through the city
feeling smaller than my own shadow.
A man without money
starts disappearing slowly.
First his confidence.
Then his voice.
Then his dreams.
Then his belief
that he deserves to stay alive.
The worst part
is not being broke.
The worst part
is blaming myself for it.
Thinking maybe
I should have fixed myself sooner.
Maybe I should have fought harder.
Maybe other men cracked the code
while I kept drowning
inside invisible wars.
And still,
somewhere beneath the rubble,
a quiet breath remains.
A tired breath.
A weak breath.
But a living one.
Because even broken men
wake up again.
Even exhausted souls
keep dragging themselves
through another sunrise.
And maybe that means
something inside me
has not fully surrendered yet.
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