Don’t Be Cruel He Is My Child

Don’t Be Cruel He Is My Child

He stands in the doorway with folded arms and silence,

Watching a boy breathe like it offends the room.

Every glance carries weight, sharp and deliberate,

Love withheld like air he refuses to give.

The boy learns early how to shrink his footsteps,

How to speak only when spoken to, or never at all.

Laughter becomes something dangerous to own,

Because joy seems to anger the man of the house.

A mother watches storms gather behind clenched jaws,

She hears the words that land harder than fists.

Her heart splits daily between fear and protection,

Trying to shield a child without breaking herself.

He calls it discipline, he calls it being a man,

Yet his eyes hold nothing close to guidance.

Resentment sits heavy where patience should live,

And kindness is treated like weakness or sin.

The boy wonders what crime he committed by existing,

Why his presence feels like an unpaid debt.

He studies the floor, the walls, the quiet corners,

Searching for somewhere he is not a burden.

At night the house exhales old anger and regret,

Doors close with meaning far beyond the sound.

A child curls inward with questions unanswered,

Learning loneliness long before growing tall.

A mother whispers prayers into darkened rooms,

Begging for softness to find its way home.

She wants him to see more than blood and pride,

To see a child who only wants to belong.

Don’t be cruel, she pleads in her tired heart,

He is my child, not your enemy or shame.

One day the boy will remember who stood for him,

And who chose hatred when love asked to stay.

She vanished leaving no goodbye behind.

Only quiet where the shouting lived.

Just the words, he is my blood, my son.

So you know why I chose him.