They called him careless, just a phase,
A boy who drifted through a haze.
Too bright to fail, too wild to stay,
He learned to mask and look okay.
The teachers sighed, “He won’t apply,”
While parents said, “At least you try?”
The doctors guessed: anxiety,
Depression, maybe low esteem.
He blamed himself for every miss,
Each chance undone, each hit or bliss.
Why can’t you just be still, stay sharp?
Why’s everything a moving spark?
He made it work, or so it seemed,
Through half-done plans and half-lost dreams.
Until the name came into view:
ADHD. At forty-two.
And with it came a flood of light,
The past reframed in softer sight.
The missed alarms, the jumbled years,
The pressure, shame, the hidden tears.
Not lazy. Not too much. Not flawed.
Just wired in a way unawed
By systems built for someone else
A mind that ran, not kept on shelves.
Now looking back, he sees the cost
Of time mislabeled, potential lost.
But forward now, he starts anew,
Armed with truth, and purpose too.
Because late isn’t never. It’s still a start.
He’s not broken, just taken apart.
And now, reassembling piece by piece,
He’s finding focus, and finding peace.
James Kitts