deepundergroundpoetry.com
Male Tears
I haven’t processed half of what I should.
The constant state of man is such:
we shed tears in the dark, as understood
at five or so that even death is much
preferable to girlishness,
or what’s perceived as such.
We wander in the deadly wilderness
whose spirit quests were forced by other men;
the system justified, even while it kills.
We strip the song from out the wren,
the boys from out the men.
And pack the hearts in stone that chills.
And so do male tears collect, in clay fleshpots
in silence stored, inscribed with what it holds.
The constant state of man is such:
we shed tears in the dark, as understood
at five or so that even death is much
preferable to girlishness,
or what’s perceived as such.
We wander in the deadly wilderness
whose spirit quests were forced by other men;
the system justified, even while it kills.
We strip the song from out the wren,
the boys from out the men.
And pack the hearts in stone that chills.
And so do male tears collect, in clay fleshpots
in silence stored, inscribed with what it holds.
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