What I am given,
not always
what was wanted.

My proud identity
indignant,
that the giver
has me,
so misunderstood.

Ungrateful,
almost hateful,
that I did not
ask for this.

Until one day,
also unexpected,
does another
ask
for help
from what I carry,
so bitterly.

So does it begin,
as a once painful burden
now flowers into life.

As I may see
again,
that which
was so quickly rejected.

And so I may see
again,
not all gifts
I am given
are meant
only
for me.

(Poem taken from Brushstrokes – Thoughts and poems on having had a small stroke at 34 yrs old)