Words could not describe the amount of annoyance and, sometimes, rage that he felt for that kid.
His father had brought a woman and her son to live in his home, saying they would become a family.
In the beginning, he felt annoyed that his territory had been invaded, but he adapted the best he could, thinking that maybe they could actually become a family.
After some time, his father and that woman started to argue about adult shit he didn't care enough to understand.
She left the house with her annoying son, back to whatever hole they'd come from.
He heard his father calling her crazy and a bunch of other things, saying that the relationship with her had been a waste of time.
Guess what? Not even a week later, they were back—she and her child returned to his house, or rather, his father's house.
He felt annoyed and angry with his father's hypocrisy for getting back together with that narcissistic woman, but he said nothing.
And then there was her son. Man, what an annoying kid. Always complaining, always being lazy, never doing his chores right.
He always felt rage when that kid started acting like a little shit, throwing tantrums instead of doing what was asked of him.
He also felt anger and frustration when his father gave in to the child—but not in the same way his father had treated him.
Well, it made sense. His father wasn't the boy's dad. Teaching the kid to stop being a little shit was his mother's job—who would sometimes be extremely hard on him, or do nothing and let his father take responsibility instead.
That fucking kid was a weakling who couldn't even sleep alone. Eight-fucking-years-old and still sleeping with the lights on!
He felt… he felt like a hypocrite. It was just a boy who still had a lot of potential to grow, while he was a man still living with his father, unable to pass the military exam to get into the fucking military academy. He felt pathetic.
Well… shit. At least he asked the AI on his phone to write a poem about his situation.
Words could not describe the amount of annoyance and, sometimes, rage that he felt for that kid.
His father had brought a woman and her son to live in his home, saying they would become a family.
In the beginning, he felt annoyed that his territory had been invaded, but he adapted the best he could, thinking that maybe they could actually become a family.
After some time, his father and that woman started to argue about adult shit he didn't care enough to understand.
She left the house with her annoying son, back to whatever hole they'd come from.
He heard his father calling her crazy and a bunch of other things, saying that the relationship with her had been a waste of time.
Guess what? Not even a week later, they were back—she and her child returned to his house, or rather, his father's house.
He felt annoyed and angry with his father's hypocrisy for getting back together with that narcissistic woman, but he said nothing.
And then there was her son. Man, what an annoying kid. Always complaining, always being lazy, never doing his chores right.
He always felt rage when that kid started acting like a little shit, throwing tantrums instead of doing what was asked of him.
He also felt anger and frustration when his father gave in to the child—but not in the same way his father had treated him.
Well, it made sense. His father wasn't the boy's dad. Teaching the kid to stop being a little shit was his mother's job—who would sometimes be extremely hard on him, or do nothing and let his father take responsibility instead.
That fucking kid was a weakling who couldn't even sleep alone. Eight-fucking-years-old and still sleeping with the lights on!
He felt… he felt like a hypocrite. It was just a boy who still had a lot of potential to grow, while he was a man still living with his father, unable to pass the military exam to get into the fucking military academy. He felt pathetic.
Well… shit. At least he asked the AI on his phone to write a poem about his situation.
"The Boy in My House"
Words could not describe the weight I bore,
The rage that boiled, the quiet war.
My father brought them through the door—
A woman and her son. No more
Was this my home, my space, my line.
It turned into a warfront, mine.
I tried to cope, I bit my tongue,
Thought maybe "family" could be sung.
But songs turned sour, as grown-ups fought
About some "adult shit"—I cared not.
She packed her bags, took him along.
I hoped, perhaps, I'd not been wrong.
But not a week had passed me by
Before the circus did retry.
She came again, that woman proud,
With her son who screamed too loud.
And Dad, who once called her insane,
Now kissed her cheek like none had changed.
That boy… that boy I couldn't stand—
So lazy, weak, no grit, no plan.
He'd throw his tantrums, whine and cry,
While I just clenched my fists and sighed.
He slept with lights on—eight years old!
What kind of child still fears the cold?
I watched my father go so soft,
Yet with me, his heart stayed locked.
He gave that kid what I had missed—
A gentle word, a loosened fist.
And though I knew it wasn't fair,
Resentment clawed through every stare.
But here's the part I didn't say:
I've failed the test, I still obey
The rules that haunt a man half-grown,
Still sleeping in my father's home.
That kid's a mess—but what am I?
A soldier who can't even try.
I call him weak, I call him small,
But I'm no giant in these halls.
And as I seethe and curse his name,
I feel the echo of my shame.
Perhaps the thing I hate the most
Is that he is me, a fading ghost.
My god … this poem was terrible.