It’s a good thing,
that most men can’t articulate their feelings,
but evolving from hands that dig and bury,
that sew and reap,
so too do they plough the fields of their emotions,
turn them over in secret,
and patiently wait for another harvest.
Sometimes, it never comes,
others, the land remains arid,
or seasons come and seasons go,
and not a fruit drops to the floor,
and yet, they toil on,
much to the merit of their character,
and to the detriment of an ingrate of a woman,
who demands his attention after he has bled his knuckles dry.
Unsatisfied with his sacrifice,
she belittles him, demands more,
secretly blossoms poetry in his soul.
Had she waited, she could have had him whole,
But in haste, she waves her feminist flag,
as if to say she raised herself independent of him all this time,
now she waits for another man, struggling to find his words,
mute, much the same,
toiling with his body to show love,
choking on his verse.