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I want to be a man.
I want the broad,
Sculpted shoulders.
I want the deep, gruff,
Musty vociferation that roars
From within the pit
Of his stomach.
I want the veiny, *****,
Callous hands. The ruffled,
Strong hands that hold dirt
And flesh without hesitation,
Or dubious grasp.
I want the broken nose,
The ****** teeth,
And the enraged, inflamed eyes.
I want the hair, the dark,
Damp, coarse hair that grows
From his every pore,
Resembling more and more
The body of an ape.
I want the smirk,
The arrogant smile splat
On his face.
I want the swagger,
The saunter that is
So impregnated in his walk,
That one which steps the earth,
Waiting for it to shatter
With his every advance.
I want the commanding voice,
That which with his footstep,
Orders the world to be held
In his hands.
I want to be proud,
Be primitive,
I want my immediate desires
To be quenched
By the milliard.
I want to destroy
And create.
I want to seek,
Seek with zeal,
And desperation
Despite stability,
Despite being pleasured.
I want the dissatisfaction
That comes with being a man,
The constant unhappiness,
The constant yelp
For something
Other than what is being offered.
I want to hate,
I want to enrage,
And be enraged.
I want to punch,
To butcher till that which I despised
Is nothing more.
I want to rip that which is his,
And his, and mine.
I want the lack of restraint,
Because it is all acknowledged
When you are a man.
It is all pardoned,
And when condemned,
There is always exile,
Exile to then live in solitude,
Still seeking for that which isn’t his.
I want to breathe freshness,
And deliver the putrid breath of
Meat, ***, and saliva.
I want to be a man,
For I am not.
I want the hollow
The full, adipose, smooth
The white-*****,
Pearls she calls
I want the bright, clean,
Sun bleached
The fine, sharpened,
Ready for scratching, Spotless
The refined, sculpted,
Long, profiled
I want gold to flake,
Off my ageing,
porous, dull,
I want the protruding,
Famished, angled
I want the pumping,
The tired, hissing,
Tar coated, smoker’s
The round, fleshy,
Cellulite covered
The motherly, but
Childless plump
I want the barren,
Bleeding, afflicted
I want the faint,
Wispy, high-pitched,
Call that she calls a
The bruised, bulging,
Porcelain polished, etched
The wide, protruding,
Ballooned up, dangling
The numb, heavy, metal
Flavored, gum bleeding
I want the skewed,
Backwards, lost
Pedals she calls
I want the hearing less,
Wax, pus covered,
The lost dull, lifeless
Dumbed down, blue
I want to be her,
All of them, and none.
I want to be lost,
Unwilling, tame, voiceless,
Mindless, childless,
Sexless, man-less.
I want to be her, but I
I cannot because I am
Thought burdened, fat,
Violent, screaming,
Child laden, broken nosed,
I cannot because dirt
Flakes off my young
Because my heart pumps,
Oxygenated blood,
At a steady, rhythmic
My voice baritones,
Deep, bottomless,
I sit on flat, concave
My lungs breathe,
Strong, fresh, smog-less
Yellow stained, grainy, calcium-ridden
Dark, musty, greased
I want to be her,
But I won’t.
Oh what a tempest to see,
And have not been seen.
To breathe,
And have not been whispered upon.
To savor,
That which we believe sacred,
However not been savored ourselves.

What solitude is that which
Ignorance brings.
What cold-stone heartedness
Does that create.
What wrathful sickness
Does that generate
On our untended souls.

O fate! Spare me from
Such cruel suffering.
Do not leave me to the hands
Of those who leave the sick
And leave me to the
Erosional pass of the elements.

Please do not dig
The ditch upon I am to befallen.
Do not chisel
The traces of my features
Without me having
Been benefited
With the joy of rapport.

Spare me from the madness
Of solitude.
For I am too young
To be left alone.
The ****** lay down,
As the untouched stream
Ran through her untouched skin.
Mountains grew like ruptures,
Imperfections, grainy tissue.
Leaves sprung up like parasites,
Clinging to dear life.

And she remained unmoved.
She remained harmonious.
Harmonious with the sudden
Obstructions that became
Carved, engraved, furrowed
Onto her pure surface.

And with sudden violence,
Her skin was ruptured,
Manipulated, ruffled.
Her once untouched earth,
Was dug out, strained,
And left out to the
Corrosion of the winds.

It was them, those parasites.
The ingrate life, that took
The animals that built,
Constructed, and cultivated.
Those that formed values.
Rules in the midst of chaos.

And she remained unmoved,
She remained content,
Content with the sudden
Colonies, civilizations,
That sprung up like
Dead may flies in spring.

But then, they brought up
Disease. They brought up
War, Poverty, Filth.
They broke those values,
Like paper chains.
And irrigated her earth,
With pools of blood.

And she remained still.
She remained petrified.
Petrified with that
That developed, unraveled,
Birthed, and destroyed,
On top of her.

She lay down as her skin,
Once fertile became sand.
Her rivers ceased to stream,
And dried up like cherries
Under the heated sun.
And the mountains crumbled,  
And the leaves withered.

She lay down as the
Colonies collapsed, and
The civilizations were left
Abandoned, forgotten.
She lay down as the
Parasites retreated,
Died, and disintegrated.

And she remained crippled,
Battered, mutilated,
But standing still.
Not untouched, but proud,
Not intact, but standing.
Alone, but at peace at last.
The incandescent lights, the crowded subways,
The penetrating fumes, the worried pace,
The ticking clocks and the rushed sweat,
The heavy breathing.
The city moans.

A man welded into a sea of bodies,
Sweat hanging from his frowned brow.
Shaky hands and an empty stare.
A quick pace walks unperceived.
He cannot be seen.

A cellular phone buzzes into his ear,
Vibrating inside his wealthy pockets.
A raggedy angry man shouts,
Like the constant bickering of his wife,
The commands of his boss.

Dark circles have replaced his eyes,
Moans have overcome his speech.
Leisure is an unobtainable dream,
Happiness is once again
An unknown deed.  

He stares from outside his window,
Confined within a wooden desk.
Stacked between a wave of duties,
He looks for an escape,
And a tempting distraction.

A thin-***** young woman, with
Child-like body, and undeveloped hips,
Walked without a pace,
Without rush, or march-like hurry.
She pranced, yes, she pranced.

Oh how her body danced,
Without worry, or clenching irk.
Her smile illuminated the beholder,
And her stubby figure, suddenly
Had become graceful.

She turned, her baby blue eyes,
And stared at him in return.
She extended her arm,
She bent her hand.
She beckoned, and he ran.

He took her hand and all
Was left behind.
The city lights, the buzzing screeches,
The never-desolate streets,
And the suffocating sweats.

The yanking automobiles,
The stumping feet, the irritable frowns,
The traffic lights, the ***** streets,
The helicopter roars,
And the rush hour jams.

The bickering wife,
The dictatorial administrator,
The dying parents, the crying children,
The mounting responsibilities,
And countless sleepless nights.

He welcomed her slender arms,
The quiet nights, and the countryside aroma.
The city fumes escaped his lungs,
And he could finally breathe,
Hear, see, taste, and feel.

Oh, how he longs such respite,
He whispers, as he stares down the window.
And slips the hand he had been holding.
She prances away,
And he stands, alone.

In between his desk, inhaling
The city fumes. Exhaling a tired breath.
Hearing the screeching wheels,
The angry drivers, and the busy tack
Of hurried standbyers.

It had only been a rush hour dream,
It seemed.
There was once a boy
A boy that resembled a toy.
A boy who wore oversized shoes,
Baggy pants and unusual spectacles.

A short stub,
That lazed clumsily around the room,
A boy whose appearance was hardly noticeable,
And presence engulfed.

The poor boy was constantly annoyed,
Teased and bothered.
Thrown around the room
Like the rag he seemed to be.

There seemed no escape,
From terrifying bullies,
That roamed around the school,
Waiting patiently to crush him.

The helpless boy waited,
For the Bully to take him,
Grab him by the shoulders,
And smother his dreams in pain.

One day, however, the boy waited.
He waited patiently
For the bullies to take command,
But they never did, they just walked past.

The lonely boy discovered,
That he pertained an unknown power,
One that left him nameless,
And devoid of appearance.

He knew he was not vitreous,
See-through or transparent.
But he could roam through a room,
Unnoticed, overlooked.

He could run through a clear field,
And go unperceived.
He was able to devour a thousand meals,
And never be blamed.

Such abilities brought wonderful joys,
And grand pleasures,
However such leisure brought
Terrible solitude in return.

The assurance of his safety warmed him,
Knowing he’d be free of harm.
But the gawky boy was lonely,
Devoid of company or charm.  

He roamed the halls alone,
He sat absently in his desk.
And slowly his loneliness
Began to consume him.

He was overcome
by the colorlessness of his pale skin,
The crookedness of his misshapen brow.
He slowly fainted, into a mirrored glass.  

The boy had become,
That he had always been;
Another shadow,
Another gust of wind.

His pale skin disintegrated.
The oversized shoes sank.
His spectacles shattered.
The smirk evanesced.

The boy became,
That which cannot be named.
A light breeze,
A faint whisper.

— The End —