Forgotten by My Own Blood

We sit on this bench beneath fading skies,
Two wrinkled shadows with tired eyes.
The days are long, the nights are cold,
In this place where stories go untold.

Walls are clean, the staff is kind,
But something’s missing—peace of mind.
A roof above, three meals a day,
Yet hearts grow hollow in slow decay.

We raised a boy with all our might,
Fed him dreams, taught him right.
We held his hand through fevered sleep,
Sacrificed hours we couldn’t keep.

He learned to walk, to speak, to read,
We gave him everything he'd need.
And every step he took so bold—
We stood behind, silent, old.

We cheered the loudest at his play,
Saved every drawing he threw away.
Scrimped and saved for college fees,
While aging bones fell to their knees.

His first job, his wedding day,
We blessed them both and stepped away.
We gave him space, we never pried—
Just stayed nearby, beaming with pride.

But time it changed, so did his tone,
He built a life, left us alone.
At first it stung, then silence grew—
He visited less, then not at all too.

One day he came, eyes cold and still,
With practiced words and iron will.
"It's best for you," he softly lied,
And left us here—he never cried.

Now here we are, forgotten souls,
Walking halls with unseen goals.
Among others with the same sad fate,
Left behind at sorrow’s gate.

We look at doors, we stare at phones,
Hoping to hear familiar tones.
But calls don’t come, the silence stays,
Like winter trapped in endless days.

We don’t ask for diamonds or gold,
Just stories shared, a hand to hold.
We gave him youth, we gave him years,
Now we sit here, drowning in tears.

A birthday passed, no letter came,
No candlelight, no whispered name.
We lit a match and watched it burn—
The symbol of a son’s return.

Others here—they weep the same,
Calling out a daughter’s name.
Each room holds a quiet ache,
Hearts too bruised and slow to break.

We wear our smiles like heavy veils,
Behind them echo untold tales.
Of lullabies and sleepless nights,
Of little wins and backyard kites.

Of scraped knees and bedtime songs,
Of teaching right instead of wrong.
But where is he, the child we knew?
The man who said, "I love you too"?

He walks a world so fast, so bright,
While we sit here and fade from sight.
The clock ticks slow, the doors stay shut,
Hope now lives inside a rut.

Sometimes we dream we’re back at home,
In the old house, not alone.
Where laughter danced across the floor,
And love was felt behind each door.

I dream of hearing footsteps near,
A voice that says, “Mom, I’m here.”
To feel his arms around my frame,
To whisper “Sorry” with my name.

But morning breaks, the dream is gone,
Reality wraps its chain back on.
And I remember where we stay—
Where parents come to fade away.

If love was real, if bonds were strong,
Would growing old feel this wrong?
Are we just chapters closed too soon,
Lost beneath a silver moon?

Yet still I hope, though hope is thin,
That he might find the child within.
That he might knock upon this gate,
Before regret becomes too late.

Till then I sit beside his dad,
He’s quieter now, his eyes so sad.
But we hold hands and still believe—
In love, though sons may leave.

We pray in whispers, not in blame,
Just longing to hear our family name.
For nothing hurts like being cast aside—
By the very life we once supplied.

No sin we've done, no crime to pay,
Except for aging in his way.
And as we wait and time moves on,
We grow more memories than dawns.

To every child who walks this earth—
Remember those who gave you birth.
For love is more than just a word,
It’s felt, it’s shown, it’s deeply heard.

Don't wait until the breath is gone,
To right the wrongs you’ve built upon.
For tears will fall when it’s too late—
And grief will knock at your own gate.