Revolted

revoltedMy 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,
too together,
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.

W.E.

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?

-idle

idle

Like him, I don’t say much,
but in writing, I chatter and prattle,
word bloat and fat, like well fed cattle,
the cure he didn’t find, the endless rattle,
mind bend, mind broke, bludgeoned in battle.

How many a man loses this fight,
how many a father with sleepless nights,
how many lay idle, and out of sight,
dormant in quiet, you’d know not their plight.

W.E.

caves and dragons

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Art by SaiKayden

caves-and-dragons


caves and dragons

Why does a woman crying in the dark,
conjure empathy to crawl out of our hearts,
even if they’re as dark as ravenous caves,
whilst a man crying in the light of day,
unleashes from the same cave,
dragons of apathy,
in fire breathing disdain.

W.E.

the double standards are real.
intentional or not
Why do you think so?
W.E.

-masculine

masculine

there are two things which break a man
being taught how to be one
by his son
or by his wife
both are necessary
if he struggles on his own

W.E.

Pray you have a good one of each or either.
As heartbreaking  as it is,
To be shown how to be something,
You assumed you already are,
It leaves a tranquil etch in you,
Unpronounced,
Too proud,
You still wear the achievement,
Despite the bereavement.

Pangs for alphahood,
Missing manhood,
Courage, chivalry,
Wayward gentlemanly,
Finding galantry,
Sitting on your sons shoulders,
Sitting in your wife’s breast.

It’s ok,
Taste it on your lips,
Swirl it on your palate,
Let it dance at the back of your throat,
And fill your belly,
There’s nothing that can sweeten the blow,
It’s something you just have to swallow slow.

-W.E.

Sons under the sun – France, Saudi, same, same

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the irony of course is not the women,
not the liberation, not the oppression,
nor the men policing them either,
but it’s the sand.

the connectedness of this dry and pale backdrop,
which I don’t know if the artist meant,
but I also don’t know if people realise.

Men, dry from the moisture of comprehension,
but wet behind the ears,
still oblivious to the idea,
that they don’t own other men,
especially other women.

and despite our outward appearance,
we haven’t evolved anywhere in the world,
secularist, fundamentalist,
dogmatic or pragmatic,
oh they love the words,
both pride themselves on arbitrary definitions.

what kind of wombs bore you,
i wonder if they deplore you,
would you police your mothers too,
would you still hold the same view?

if it were your mother that was dressed,
or undressed,
would you still feel the need to oppress?

I wonder,
what the world would look like if right from the start,
women were just left alone,
how much more would we as a civilisation,
have grown?

This arid backdrop is the wasteland of what we have become,
of two images of things that can’t be undone,
both burned into our retinas,
by women’s sons, under the sun.

W.E.

Art by Khalid Albaih
https://www.facebook.com/KhalidAlbaih

-marriage

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-marriage

all women have secrets.
most men are afraid to ask.

for them,
marriage is a burdensome task
do I ask, don’t I ask,
do I ask, don’t I ask,

he afraid to,
she reluctant to tell,

both wearing masks.

W.E.

ask her secret
or you won’t be able to hold her down
ask her secret
before you don’t find her bound
ask her secret
if you want to keep her around
ask her secret
and forever she’ll be your crown

tell your secret
if you want to keep him close
tell your secret
and he’ll heal you like aloes
tell your secret
and he’ll raise hair on neck and curl your toes
tell your secret
if you want to hear his prose

-W.E.

-mature

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-mature

daughter asked,
how do I tell the difference
between a boy and a man

mother replied,
by the stroke of their hand

one will touch you
the other will make you feel sacred

W.E.


It may be that he is not the first to touch you
but he will always feel like the last.
Like the earth and all it contains,
presented itself in a bouquet,
and it scrapes along your spine.
Lavender, patchouli, rose, almond,
bergamot and musk,
his touch will stain your skin,
brand your soul,
and nothing after,
will ever make you whole.

Perhaps that was his secret,
a tender man, with earthen fingers,
bloodied feet,
soles that were one with the land,
his blood, it’s blood,
perhaps that is why he can make her terrain feel like it is boundless,
perhaps that is why she is happy to be owned by him.

Some people can shower you with compliments,
and it feels like poison being spat at you,
whilst others may strike you with vileness,
but your body calls for more of it,
another lashing,
another branding,
at least it is the whole of them,
striking the whole of you.

It’s perplexing why a woman will choose one man over the other,
a boy over a man,
more so,
why she chooses to be covered by dirt,
rather than swallowed by earth.

-W.E.