Tonight I’m opening something new: American Buddhist Poetry Radio — a quiet room where truth is spoken without decoration.
This first episode sits with a wound many of us carry in silence: the wound of unraised children.
Not just fatherlessness or motherlessness, but the deeper ache of growing up without the presence, protection, or guidance we needed.
This poem is my story — and the story of countless Americans.
Listen gently.
The Wound That Keeps Repeating
I was told my mother was nobody.
My father was a forgotten word —
never spoken, never claimed.
Years passed like dim hallways
in adoption homes
where children echo louder than footsteps,
and pain grows its own shadow
when no one calls your name.
Still, I moved.
Still, I lived.
Forward — even when forward meant nowhere.
The neglect followed me,
quiet, sharp,
ignorance dressed up as parenting.
The kind that wounds a child
before he even knows what a wound is.
How could I understand it then?
How could any small, scared mind grasp
that the people raising you
didn’t know how to show up,
didn’t know compassion,
didn’t know themselves?
Even the ones who rented me
failed their own rent.
Failed at money, at emotion, at love.
And every failure fell into me,
widening the silence inside my chest.
I was a child who knew nobody,
and nobody knew him.
And when someone did show up,
even for a moment,
I clung.
I loved harder.
I sang joy like a prayer
until absence came again
and swallowed the room.
This is the American wound:
unraised children
raising themselves.
A sick cycle.
A wounding machine.
A story that keeps repeating
because no one is taught
how to stop bleeding
before they’re handed a child.
Stillness is rebellion.
Compassion is a weapon.
Peace is within.
Carry all.
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