Member Poem

Born with a burden, a name made of stone,
A fate that is written, a path not our own.
The armor they gave us was heavy with rust,
The world carved from iron demands that we trust.

The weight of the silence, the toll of the fight,
The war that we battle alone in the night.
To suffer is noble, to break is to fail,
To speak is to weaken, to cry is to pale.

We bleed without bleeding, we scream without sound,
We drown in a river that pulls men to drown.
Each step is a sentence, each breath is a war,
Each smile is a mask we can’t wear anymore.

And yet, we keep standing though weary, though torn,
For men must be mountains and never the storm.
To love us is seldom, to need us is rare,
And still, when we vanish, they ask if we cared.