He hides behind
masculine lies
that he has been
told to live by all of his life.
Man up.
Don't cry.
Don't let on that you feel downcast
feeling like life is swooping past,
Don't let on that you feel close to a downfall
Don't let on that you are
feeling at all.
He sits in his
own misery pits.
In dull grim light.
A throne of discordant soundbites
echoing toxic hits.
Trees inside his tangled mind.
Branching out.
Leaves before morning,
can't catch dogged feelings,
if he doesn't bark up
the wrong trees.
He resides
in this lobotomised mind.
The generational
divide doesn't help him add up
his multiplying thoughts
It just forces this
downward slide. Subtracting
what's left of his human side.
He feels like a number, left behind.
Because he only sees the world
through the teachings
his upbringing supplied.
In this heathens haven
of drunks and slovenly looks
He sits, Downing pints,
never reading books.
He sits with blurred outlines
dancing across his vision
just outside of his line of sight.
He sits wasting the day
Just so he can waste the night.
It's in his genetics he tells himself.
Health? I'll worry about that
when I'm dead and buried.
Can't ask for help.
He will be verbally castrated on sight.
Look the wrong way, fight,
flight not an option.
Not in this world
where nothing left feels right.
And if he lets on that he feels
out of his depth.
The other men will hound him,
like dogs with bated breath.
Thanks for reading
No comments:
Post a Comment