Men are…

Men

We are dirt bags behind fake purses,                                                                                                    held in high praise by misplaced orientation.                                                                                         A specie on an undeserved pedestals,                                                                                             society’s disappointment to the male generation.                                                                            We are men with little substance,                                                                                                          still enforcing 50’s standards,                                                                                                                    trained by phallic ancestors,                                                                                                                  who stuck with yesteryear goals like they were a dogma.                                                            While we are scum before Gaya,                                                                                                       undeserving of our titles.                                                                                                                           We wear tiny accomplishments like medals,                                                                                           our strength and wisdom but tattered badges.                                                                                         Heavy burdens forced on broad shoulders                                                                                             mostly built for show and tell.                                                                                                                   All brawn and might,                                                                                                                                we’re mostly good as low achievers,                                                                                                Mediocrity is our foundation,                                                                                                                       so we build small rooms with low ceilings to reach up to,                                                                   forgetting a skylight for our dreams to escape to.                                                                                 If by some miracle a loner in the lot tries to find a way out,                                                            he’s got friends with beer bottles and friends who’re beer bottles,                                     calling for him to come take giant sips before he steps out,                                                                before leading him groggily to the next room,                                                                                       to grab and grope in the darkness for warm logs.                                                                                  We’re men alright                                                                                                                                           and once we get older we get worse and scare easy,                                                                         two decades closer to death’s cold sofa,                                                                                                 we let ourselves go without a once over.                                                                                               The angels who look up to us in wonder,                                                                                                 will bow their heads after they see failure at that time.                                                                    And lips that call us heroes,                                                                                                                          hearts that seek solace in our arms,                                                                                                      will become colder and dirtier in time when we turn abandoner.                                                Bailing because we get too old and cant stand the responsibilities ahead                               that seem to be worse choices than seventy and Hades

 

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Hitlebb

I am me. I am Me. I write when I want to be free.

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