On the man whose boyhood photo seems to say, "help me, I'm hurting."

I know it was a smile that I had seen
in a photograph, maybe you were fourteen,
or even twelve;
but still, looked you not happy to so do.

It seemed a twinkle in your eye that gleamed
was outward put by lies that left you teamed,
between the two;
it was your heart that with your eye did swell.

Or maybe the curl of your lips was feigned
for I have known you owing to disdain,
still I am new;
I can not of your disposition speak.

And for whom's sake, did you conceal the day
that brought you to the point which you could say,
"I am not weak."
"Help me, I'm hurting." Words of strength, from you.