When Men Cry

I remember being described when younger,

As being "intense" in euphemistic vernacular.

Implying that an honesty of  thought and feeling,

Was somehow burdensome upon receiving ears.

A contrarian breach of carefully crafted protocol,

A burial of ourselves behind  imperious walls

that I could never understand the need for.

An exhausting facade maintained

when I hunger for the pulse

of the naked truth.

Why pretend?

Is this not particularly pervasive in men?

Are we not mired in legacies of silence

That stretch across generations

in the guise of a masculine ideal.

We stitch violence and sorrow

into the fabric of our gender,

With each utterance of  "boys don't cry",

with each betrayal of our  tenderness,

We fan tumultuous fires

beneath our skin

that set the world


For we are afraid and confused,

We inflict our blind rage

upon our women ,children,

and the earth itself.

Who in turn learn

that at our finest,

We are taciturn.

It crystalised

when I finally saw

my grandfather howl

by my father's coffin.

He had left it too late.

It is  brave and honest men

that refuse to deny

all that cuts deep

and overflows.

Life is an emotional experience

and the world needs men

who cry.