My safe space,
my comfort zone,
is too taboo,
so I have to do it alone.
So long as I keep my hyper masculinity on my sleeves,
like bulging biceps or an inflated chest,
I can keep my emotions buried and hidden,
between this fleshen nest.
Men can’t be both,
we’re either too soft,
or too hard,
or too apart,
fragmented into convenient bits and lots,
able to be filed and sorted into slots,
convenient for comfort,
but let those feelings rot.
Keep them buried,
leave the platform for the meek,
let women herald the stage,
as for men,
leave their emotions only worthy,
for ink on a page.
What’s up with that huh?
Can’t a burly bloke walk the lines of poetic prowess,
whilst like a gorilla, size you up, fisticuffs ready and beat his chest?