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"There are a few good men like you", she says.
"Men out there are gods, born to be worshipped
they were told good women aren't created with tongues to talk back
Men out there are tyrants in their kingdoms
they are broken and their women die trying to mend them
blinded by ambition they can't see what's in front of them
and have seen terrible things happen to men like you so they don't believe.
Men out there are burdened by expectations,
they shoulder the shattering weight of society's pressure,
Lost in their minds, they forget to be present...
They're a civil war and the battle sometimes returns with them
fights lost resolved using the punching bag they married at home...
Every step forward, they're pulled five steps back,
Entangled in a web of a perceptions they can't unpack.
Men out there, like caged birds do long to be free,
Yet the bars of expectations deny them the key.
They're deafened by their own silent screams but they refuse
to lean on anyone, after all, growing up they were told big boys don't cry."
It's always as hard as draining water out of marble,
a battle against resistance, each drop a struggle.
The weight of the world presses, unyielding,
Like Atlas carrying the cosmos on his shoulders,
Bearing a burden that threatens to shatter every bone.
We're forged in the crucible of adversity,
Tempered by flames that lick at our wounded edges.
The endless path we tread is a jagged road,
Lined with the fragments of shattered dreams,
Every step taken is just another excruciating *****.
The walls we build are fortified with concrete pain,
Constructed brick by brick from the remnants of heartache,
A fortress to protect what remains of our fragile selves.
Our foundations are tectonics, quakes are born beneath us,
We walk holding hands with the next wrecking storm.
It’s never easy, for even when hope softly knocks at our door,
it’s a whisper in a hurricane of doubt, a fragile cry amidst the roar,
an uphill climb on a path strewn with precarious boulders,
a single ray of light in the depth of the night.
It’s never easy for us...
Let me guess, you were lonely when she came,
So you gave away your whole heart because all its rooms were vacant,
When you heard whispered promises from the ocean of her eyes.
After all her highly explosive smiles ignited flames in your skies,
You have always been an artist, so you painted a love not as it was but as you perceived,
Even though what was on the canvas was a big contrast to what you received.
You had failed at love before but really believed she was your craved shot at success,
And sculpted beautiful moments, carving memories with chisels of your affection.
Gifts like petals, delicate and rare, but they couldn't mend the fractures in the air.
You wrote poems, she was always the theme even without mentioning her name,
A serenade under moonlight's gentle touch, yet her heart remained distant, out of your clutch.
You wove a basket of stars in her name, each twig a promise, yet she remained the same.
You sought her heart like a sailor aground, yet love's current swept you further from the shore.
For sometimes things just fall apart, and the artist's touch can't change a heart.
Do not read it, you will not like this book, it speaks about your pain,
It reveals your scars, the ones you don't want us to see,
It tells how lonely you are and happy you used to be.
You will not like the reminder that you once really believed in love,
That your heart was a beautiful castle, this book calls it rubble.
Its pages will unfold like the layers of your forgotten dreams,
Revealing the cracks where hope once happily lived .
You'll find remnants of the light that used to dance in your eyes,
Now muffled by the cello tape of countless goodbyes.
This book is a mirror to the cold nights you spend alone,
When only the stars see your tears, and onto your groans the moonlight shines.
and her light sings the melodies of your shattered symphony,
The tune of heartbreak and bittersweet agony.
The stories it holds will reopen the septic you've concealed,
The wounds that time tried really hard but miserably failed to heal.
In these pages, you'll meet the demons you've known,
As the pain within you is a dynamite waiting to be blown.
this book will drug you deeper into the labyrinth of your past,
Aren't you, exhausted from trekking the same miles when you've just washed off the dust?
this book brews with the wrecking storms thought to have passed...
Do not read this book, it will drive you insane...
She is sore, burnt by sparks from the flames of desire
there is no treasure to find in the land far away;
yet, the journey home is as tiring as the stay.
The ocean of opportunity, once pictured in vibrant hues,
stretches before her in muted tones, its waves carrying
not the promises but the weight of disillusionment.
The sky above, once a canvas of dreams, now painted grey with clouds of doubt,
casting shadows on the path she knew, or thought!
The laughter that lingered is drowned by the silence of shattered dreams
The friendly whispers, once a soothing melody, now resound as hollow echoes,
stark reminders of friendships dissolved like mirages in the desert of reality.
The road paved with anticipation is a maze of uncertainties,
each turn leading to a dead end of unmet expectations.
The once vibrant petals of hope have withered,
replaced by the thorns of disappointment, pricking at her spirit with every step.
The starry nights that were supposed to hold her wishes
now seem like distant constellations, beyond her reach,
lost in the vast expanse of unfulfilled aspirations.
The roads of life are perilous now more than ever
for her knight of courage upped and left in the dead of night ...
She can't even tread on the shore of optimism
as what should have been warm sand is a swamp of alligators waiting to bite...
They say she was molded from Angel wings,
that her face was brushed with star dust.
That she was bathed in a meteor shower,
And alloyed in an asteroid crust.
There was an eclipse each time she blinked
and when she cleared her throat an earthquake.
They say her heart was so big it could empty the Atlantic ocean,
that her smile was silver marinated with pure gold.
She caused solar flares when she flirted, global warming when she farted...  
Her presence, osmium-strong, held so much weight,
that all marveled at her, as sapphires were her eyes
and her mystic gaze held the aurora in their depths.
Her feet were cosmic, galaxies born with each step,
Her mind a black hole of infinite wisdom,
some thought her alien, others titan,
for she clutched the universe in her palms...
and her handshake was a bridge to uncharted realms.
Her hair flowed in dollops of molten amber and liquid silk,
and her hug they say was a gentle breeze across the desert sands.
She was art and art was something he obsessed over,
A painting of the sunset hanging from a wall,
Colors ablaze, a fiery sky dipped in gold,
Captured on canvas, a moment to  behold.
She was a quiet resort far away, a tranquil escape,
Ancient engravings, in perfect size and shape.
Unearthed yet intricate pottery with patterns so fine,
She was the echoes of artisans from another lifetime.
She was a handwritten letter, each word a brushstroke of care,
A fragrant bloom, delicate and rare.
She was a vintage record, the soft crackle of nostalgia,
A seashell's whisper, a gala, a cultural memorabilia.
She was starburst in the night, a sparkle's gleam,
A clear flowing river, an artist's dream.
She was a fragment of a meteor's cosmic flight,
A glimpse into the universe's sheer might.
She was a mosaic of moments, a gallery of sights,
A constellation of dreams on endless nights.
She was the fragrance of rain on dry earth,
A treasure trove of memories, each one with worth...
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