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Women can be men
Men can be women
People can be people
We didn’t write the feeling...

Stars can be supernovas
Meaning can be mending
And paintings can bend
And walls can return...

And shapes of architecture become earth

Lovers can be lovers
Leavers can believe us
Lights, camera, action, order, disorder
Dysphoria, euphoria
Academia, abracadabra
The moon, ***, sun and laughter

Instantaneousness

Osmosis

Fear, friction, distance, pure bliss
Bubble toting aqua world
Top this...

Freedom, collaboration
Emancipation, cognification
Celebration...

Millenniums of us saving, changing...
What we actually are eventually...

One surging sway of soul-light soldered angels
Growing out of a morphing abyss ocean
I bin billions...
I bin the idea I’d sink and burn
I bin men with no discernment...
Or taste but no measurement
I bin freedom if it’s flawless...
And men too tired to learn this
I bin all this.
I bin birth.
I bin the thing that makes it hurt -
So I try to bring thirst...
Drive this doubt into the dirt
And stir this thing into reverse...
—burning sweet these silver birches,
Stepping glassy eyed in churches,
Growing curved through the highest steeples,
Opening the eyes of the highest evil...
Seems we finally prove us equal, to elevate one perch
Bree 6d
Length and lean
Tall and mean
Muscle and tone
Sigh and moan

Taught and clean
Bitter and gleam
Crush and bite
Timber and might

Holy and wrought
Rough and cough
Steady and calm
Dirt and charm

Man and soot
Man and foot
Farm and barn
Heat and brawn

Sleep and eat
Never obey
Stormy way
Hidden meat
Oh my muscle man
With your deep tan
Down by the beach/boredom-walking Next to you.
And you think
Oh man of mine
that I care.
Ha! I prefer
Brains over brawn
Care over Callous
Keeping freedom over my body to that STICK you call Tex
With eyes of despair, empty as a spoiled pair, born but nobody cares
The life he lives with a smile, that hides the pain nobody hears
Born to provide, born to suffer, born to protect ,born to break
A man's life shatters when his earth shakes
A man who can't provide is a failure a man who cries is weak
The life as man is to hide your emotions,the life of a wall that stands strong
A wall built to keep them in a wall that grows to a limit with no end
a wall that refuses to crack
Welcome to the mans world
You work over and over to keep everyone else satisfied
Welcome to the mans world
Every problem in your life your told to get over it
Welcome to the mans world
     when everyone within your walls problems is also your problem
Welcome to a man's world
When you realize speaking on ur feelings makes everything worse
Thats a mans world
And people wonder why men don't talk about their feelings
So you can throw it back in their faces!  
No
A man fears pity
No
A man fears stress
No
A man fears not being able to be a man!
Not being able to look another man in the eye!
Not being able to open up to let someone In!
Now Let this sink in
Cause all of a man's life where told to man up told not to cry
That letting your emotions out makes you weak
Told that if u fall your on your own and when everything is good make it great,
Expected to do better in every little situation like **** give us a break…
See It's too hard, we can't say that it makes us weak ,hard life we live
Just like animals in the wild only the strong cubs survive

If u cant push through the suffering your left to die
Knowing that every little problem just nips at your life
Falling into despair but nobody bats an eye
As the pain builds up it makes you wanna die
As he hangs from the ceiling with the pain flooding his eyes,
SNAP!
A sound saved his life
Nearly lost, but somebody's saving his life
A failed attempt
Bound to happen again
Once he succeeds
Then the caring actually begins…  
Its shameful
Welcome to a man's world
Was my first poem
Voiced https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT6D5PAKw/
Bree Jul 25
I am sitting next to Captain
another man is sitting in a shadowy corner.
He has a gray beard that reaches down to his man ****.
He eyes me, takes a mental picture, and proceeds to smile his way through his conversation on how blessed we all are that a mother is here.
Who the **** is this guy?
I read a book about men and anger —
and it clawed into my chest like guilt with teeth.
Not just the loud eruptions,
but the quiet fires I never noticed burning,
the way I smoldered
while pretending I wasn’t heat.

Was I the villain in our ruin?
Is that why I wake up with her face aching behind my eyes?
Why I weeped this morning
from dreaming of her warmth beside me?

Yes, I shouted.
Yes, I shut down.
Yes, I swallowed rage until it poisoned everything we tried to build.
But didn't she light matches too?

She pulled away —
a distance I could feel, even when her skin was close.
Was it all a plan?
was she really “just waiting" to be rid of me?

I wanted forever.
Now all I have is this loop —
the smoking remnants of what was,
what might have been,
what may never come again.

I walk to breathe.
I walk to scream in silence.
I walk to stop myself from picking up the bottle.
From spiraling back into shame’s embrace.

What does it mean when two broken people call each other home?
Was it love? Survival?
Or history?
A scar we made sacred
as she paid the price.
Zywa Jul 18
To be made pregnant

for love and not for a man --


who's just taking you.
Novel "Alles verandert" ("Everything changes", 2015, Kristien Hemmerechts), chapter 9

Collection "Loves Tricks Gains Pains in the 10s"
CE Uptain Jul 17
What kind of man does what men do
Cheat and steal, then lie to me and you
What kind of man starts a war with his pen
Knowing it will cause the death of many men

What kind of man can change the world we’re in
What kind of man can change other men
Where is the man that can lead us to love
Where are the men guided from above

What man has done for his fellow man
That only true men will do what they can
What kind of man stands tall against men
What kind of man can save us from sin
Here's my deep thought for today. Man, that's deep even for me.
Lynette Jul 12
(a poem for the women left holding the dustpan)

I remember when my children were small—
eager hands reaching for the broom,
begging to help.
They’d trail behind me,
half-heartedly sweeping,
missing corners,
scattering crumbs.

But they wanted to try.
So I let them.

I’d guide their tiny hands,
show them the rhythm,
and still end up doing it myself.
They’d get tired, bored—
drop the broom mid-sweep
and run off laughing
while I stayed behind
to clean it properly.

That’s what this felt like with you.

You insisted.
“I want this. I can do this.”
So I gave you the broom.
I showed you the way.
I slowed down, waited,
offered my heart like a home.

But the minute the work began,
the minute the dust stirred,
you handed it back—
too heavy, too much,
not fun anymore.

And like a child,
you disappeared into yourself,
while I stood there—
hands full of splinters,
heart full of ache,
sweeping up the pieces
of everything you couldn’t carry.

You wanted the broom.
Until you didn’t.

And now I’m here,
again—
cleaning the mess
you made of me.
Remembering the men who wanted to play, but not clean up after the mess they made.
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