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SophiaRyle Oct 26
Imagine if men were more disgusted with **** as much as they are with periods.
SophiaRyle Oct 6
If you consider a woman less pure because you've touched her,
Maybe you should take a look at your hands.
Owen Sep 29
Men are 3 to 7 times more likely to commit suicide than women.
Men account for 55 percent of the workforce, but account for 92 percent of workplace deaths.
Men live on average 5 years less than women.
Police shoot more white men than any other demographic each year.
The vast majority of people in prison are men.
The majority of people suffering from homelessness are men.
Men are encouraged to seek help with there mental health but are ridiculed or ignored when they try.
77 percent of suicides are men.

"Be more open about your emotions"
"Stop complaining, you have no right to complain"
"Man up"
"Don't be a *****"
"That's not a real man's job"
"Grow a pair"
"You won't even fight back?"
"I need a man that can afford me"
"Men don't cry its a sign of weakness"
"Men have it so good"
"All men are trash"

"**** all men"

Welcome to manhood.
Beneath and beyond the ends of warmth and scars.
And the horror of shades to tear.
All along within the menace of our years.
How could this be just mere?

Gender equality; disadvantageous to our masculity.
Our laws failed us,-failed to settle the disparity.
Left us in mud of our fate;  such a scroll,
At the detriments of our souls.

At times, I wonder the stance of men in ****.
Convicted and jailed just to knot tight his lace.
He rapes, he’s justifies as an ape.
When *****, he toiled in silence as his fate.

If,
Our society can’t help, but
Protects other women’s rights and voice
If,
Men are seen toxic, but
Still tonic the affairs of our state.
If,
Men are now monsters,
Yet, represent elements of determination, growth and strength.
If,
That man could feed you care, and
Still respects your gender differences.
That man deserves your honor and regard,
Because men are not stone, and
That makes us sweet and admiring.
The position our society placed men has made us to forget some of the life threatening challenges they face at some point in their lives. However, this piece seeks to highlight some of those challenges and to also give voices to the oppressed men.
Zywa Sep 4
Men after the war:

they are still hard, their voices,


their hands, and their lust.
"Grand Hotel Europa" (2018, Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer) --- Collection "Palace of the Night"
Zywa Aug 29
The harbour bell blocks

all men with colourful socks --


in the Northern Docks.
"Noorderdokken" ("Northern Docks", 2004, Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer)

Collection "Palace of the Night"
Zywa Aug 29
The girl I follow

would really like to kiss me --


if she just knew me.
"Koningin Hatshepsut" ("Queen Hatshepsut", 2001, Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer)

Collection "Palace of the Night"
Kassan Jahmal Aug 12
But what do you know about love,
when you can’t show trust—but you know about lust.
Always thinking about how to fu—nction on your luck.
And that’s going to be a quick bust; infatuations are a rush.
We’d swear we don’t cuss, as you’re drinking coffee for
a buzz—I'm just drinking to keep up.

You say you love me, but I know you also love other girls,
so yeah right, yeah right! Just a shareholder in your life.

You love to talk but we don’t speak, you take life at ease,
but disturb my peace. Feels like you cut my wrists; there’s
no love for me to reach. But I still got a lot to give in a week,
till it leaves me feeling weak.

A heart made of stone, in the echo tone that you can’t
be alone. That’s a quarry of your love, when we quarrel
outside. So it’s hard to swallow pride, when we’re prideful
on both sides. In the shapes of drawing hearts, we’ve always
crossed a line. The outline is this relationship is not fine.
In the tune with a misconduct’s  due. And I wish I could say
I’ve never known, but I always knew. So the wrongs you
do now, are nothing new.

But why the heck did I choose
YOU!?
Some of you,
Some of you are kind
Some of you,
Some of you are mean

Mean
And this word feels insignificant
Feels childish
Feels empty, and hollow, and small, and nothing, and yet
That’s what you are,
Because that is what you have made me
Because, all of you
All of you,
Have tiny pieces of me.

To all the men that have found me,
You have found the part of me you want.
Years I have spent crafting to reflect the version of myself you want to see.
Like wrapping myself up as a present
I tailor the ribbon, the colours all for you
Am I messy?
Are my corners ripped and jagged?
Does my bow come loose?
Is my tape perfectly invisible?
Do I open with ease?
Can you guess what’s inside?
Am I something you asked for?
Do you need the receipt for an easy return?
Am I the on the wish-list?
Am I the forth pair of socks you really didn’t need?
Are you going to use me everyday?
Am I essential?
Am I just a toy?
Will I collect dust amongst the mountains of things you acquire as you gracefully move through life?
Will you remember me, pull me out amongst the stacked piles of your memories, dust me off and smile at the faint recollection of my touch?
Will you assemble me, build me up as something to be proud of, or will you leave me in the box, still scattered in pieces?
Will you recycle me, regift me, give me to charity when you’re done with me, when I don’t quite fit anymore, when I don’t quite work anymore, when I don’t quite match your aesthetic, mirror the version of yourself you want to exist as, act in accordance to your will, moan on time, smile on time, talk on time, preform on time, dance on time, laugh on time, listen on time, love on time.

Please god love me,
Please lord see me,
Please man hear me,
Please boy need me,
Want me,
Want me,
Want me.

I am so tired of being suffocated in the versions of myself I have crafted for you
men
I am so bored of reproducing the same giggle, coy smile and gentle whisper to entice you
Men
I am so fed up with hating myself before you can
Men
I am so sickened by the way I objectify myself to tailor to your high school *******
Men
I am so exhausted of reshaping my mouth to fit perfectly into yours
Men
I am so broken over not being special enough, not loud enough, not quiet enough, not brave enough, not clumsy enough, not **** enough, not coy enough, not funny enough, not stupid enough, not smart enough
Men
I am so done with writing not enough.

Like a broken music box,
My heart seems to skip over the same note on repeat
And you think it’s frustrating to your ears
Oh my god am I enraged at this same song
This same despondent pinging in which every single note seems just off

You slap me amongst your key rings and let dangle centimetres away from the lock that holds the access point to your heart
And I know I am more than just an ornament
More than just a house plant you forget to water
More than just your 2 day old Chinese food that you hope won’t make you sick
More than just that old sweater never wear but that you keep because it smells like home
More than just the at home gym equipment you bought because you said “new year, new me”
More than just your hobby,
More than just your prize,

I have spent years,
Building the small part in myself I hope someone will call home
And here you are treating it as though it is a cage

To all the men I know,
To all the men I’ve known,
I am no longer comfortable bending, reshaping, cracking, adjusting at the will of your glance
I am angry, not because I am malleable
But because your hands made me so.
Spoken word, spoken mess.
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