Certain men may be pigs, and maybe some feminists take it a bit far,
but when it comes to sexism, I certainly don't think it's restricted to ***;
and when it comes to racism: there's no such thing as race.

Far too many **** Sapiens are just ******* vapid and odious when it comes to their personality, in general. It doesn't matter if the narrative is One's ***, or religion, politics, perceived gender, art, science, the weather or any other elite form of edified philosophy.

I want to believe that everyone has merit-
that they cannot be judged by any external entity
that, because it is external, lacks the whole context.

Still, some people spoil my attitude towards people a bit.

Humans are my favorite counter-example; yet, I love us. Somehow.

Jaded though I may well be,
I seek foremost to be kind, but that makes you a doormat.
One seems to have two choices: be a push-over, or an *******.

I seek the middle path:
empathic and kind, but also self-interested.
..something of a "passive-assertive" person.

Returning to the point:
I'm just an equalist, I guess.
Egalitarian. Individualist.

Sexism? Racism? Nationalism?
Why the **** is it even an issue?

Haven't we grown up at all in the last 10,000 years?

If someone's skin color, chromosomal composition, language, wealth, ethnicity, or where on Earth they happened to be born is that big of an issue to you psychologically and socially, there are much bigger problems going unchecked boiling over within you. The abandoned kettle whistles.
Good luck. Earnestly.
We're all counting on you.

People are people.
Worry about yourself and what and who you love.

From the countless footsteps
I could feel hers
when summer sun was slanting
the day was losing glares.

Oh her lotus feet
how they cooled the burning dust
soothed my spirit
now I tell the story must!

She would wait beneath a tree
to catch a passing song
that breathed her lullaby
stayed with her for long.

When wind hushed the passing note
the darkness chilled her bone
upon her eyes starlight wrote
you are so alone.

She turned the way she came
trod me her lotus feet
hadn’t seen her known her name
but felt her in heartbeat.

One evening she waited long
till the last crow found its nest
she was dying to hear his song
but silence rent her breast.

As she walked my laden stone
weighed in load of pain
I could feel her anguished moan
that fell on me like rain.

She hasn’t come back to this day
hadn’t seen her known her name
only know it’s truth they say
once lit never dies love’s flame!

It is very strange to be a man, schooled in the acts of love by the writings of Anais Nin and Pablo Neruda, living in this place. So absurd to be told by women expecting savageness that he is gentle, that he is kind, that he is something other than what they have known before and yet...this very tenderness is what drives them away in the morning. I am not an idiot, I know what a seeming contradiction this is. Perhaps I have some failing I'm not aware of, perhaps my guess at what the women I make love to really want is a complete falsehood. I suppose that is probably correct, considering my experience and what I'm told men should do to women. "Yes, a good, swift and utterly meaningless **** in a bathroom or a car, just give it to them ***** like an almost ****, that's what the girls want...your **** and nothing else."
Yet the women I've spoken to purely platonically want and need the exact opposite, but seem to have given up on anything beyond it. I'm at a loss, completely befuddled by what I feel in my heart, and what I've experienced.

What sick process turned a man's tenderness into closet homosexuality?
What terrible ******* turned a woman's need for warmth and love into a weakness?

if you want to make a mark on the world,
remove the marks placed upon thyself,
by thyself,
thus skilled,
then erase others.

be an eraser,
then
a bother-in-arms.

no typo,
bother the world
by your
arms,
your reach around,
arms extended.

freedom begins when first seeing the greater good.

making goodness greater,
frees oneself to free the others,
all the days of your life.

mark them how you free them well,
being a eraser,
then a re~marker
upon each other.

he who erases the marks of others,
makes his mark upon the world non-pareil.