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.
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.
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
Life is an emotional experience
and the world needs men