Writers 
A man is born beneath the morning sun,
With a thousand dreams before his race is run.
He knows not yet what the world will demand,
Or how much pain life will place in his hands.
As a boy, he runs where the wild winds blow,
With pockets of dreams and so much to know.
He laughs without fear, he sleeps without care,
Unaware of the burdens that one day he'll bear.
Then comes the age when the world says, “Be strong,”
When he learns that the road can be cruel and long.
He buries his fears beneath a brave face,
And walks through the storm with a steady pace.
They teach him to provide, to protect, to stand,
To build his own future with calloused hands.
But who asks the man if his spirit is tired?
Who sees the ashes where his dreams once fired?
He wakes up at dawn with the weight of the day,
Searching for bread while his hopes fade away.
He smiles at his children, though his pockets are bare,
And whispers, “It will be well,” to conceal his despair.
Sometimes he is broken but never complains,
Washing his sorrow beneath midnight rains.
He wants to be held, but he swallows the need,
For the world taught him weakness is something to heed.
He loves with a heart that may never speak,
He stands like a mountain when his knees grow weak.
He gives out his strength till there's nothing to spare,
Then cries in the silence when nobody's there.
And sometimes he fails, though he gave it his all,
Sometimes he climbs, sometimes he falls.
Sometimes his mistakes become chains on his name,
And the world remembers his loss, not his pain.
But listen, dear world, let this truth be known:
A man is not made of flesh, pride, and bone.
He, too, has a heart that can shatter like glass,
He, too, has dark nights that he struggles to pass.
He needs more than applause when he wins the race,
He needs someone who sees the tears on his face.
He needs love that is gentle, a hand he can hold,
A place to feel safe when the world turns cold.
And when age arrives with its silvering hair,
He looks at his life and the burdens he bears.
He counts not his riches, his houses, his fame,
But the hearts he has touched and the lives he has changed.
For the life of a man is not measured in gold,
Nor the number of victories his hands can hold.
It is found in the love that he leaves when he's gone,
In the seeds of kindness that continue to grow on.
So, before you judge a man standing in the rain,
Remember, his smile may be hiding great pain.
Be gentle with him; let compassion take its stand,
For even the strongest may need a helping hand.
A man is not just the rock that won't break,
He is also the river that trembles in a lake.
He is a thousand untold stories beneath his skin,
Fighting silent wars that the world cannot see within.
And perhaps the greatest gift that a man can receive
Is not being told to be strong, but being allowed to breathe.
Because behind every man who stands tall in the light,
There may be a thousand battles he fought in the night. ❤
