“Real men don’t write poetry”
This from a real man?
“And what of being a real man do you know”
Said I, non-evasively as I can
For true it may well be
Poets might all be infected
Bitten by the same bug
And mutually respected
We’re diseased with internal motives
To put words to emotions
Some with rhymes, some not
But all with lyrical devotions
Finding a cure
The least of our concerns
Actually, the cure is built in
Resuming to write, a poet returns
Only he of ego on high
Who misunderstands his own heart
Can chase his tail round and round
Until he knows not where he starts
And one day
When his heart is heavy
As tears flow like rivers
Then suddenly weaken the levee
He’ll search for words
To express his pain
When he can’t tell the difference
Between his tears and the rain
Reading words birthed from his pen
His unexpected surprise
Poetic scribblings
There before his eyes
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