Men after the war:

they are still hard, their voices,


their hands, and their lust.

The harbour bell blocks

all men with colourful socks --


in the Northern Docks.

The girl I follow

would really like to kiss me --


if she just knew me.

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.

men down the alley
don't care for the person
that they hunt
they care for
the prey like manner
of the scared

I am done being measured by being without a man. I am so done with dating. I am getting to a point where - remembering their information?
Darling, show me you're here to stay first.
I am done remembering facts and whole pageturner conversations.
Effort?
I might put it in when I feel like it.

Dating is horrid. Spend weeks apping and talking and sharing and caring only to part after what, date two? Three?
No, I am done.

But yes, that is the paradox. I want love.
I want THAT adventure too.
But I am done begging god for love or for fate to find me a person.

I AM DONE BEING BUILT UP, WRECKED AND HAVING TO REBUILD AFTER SOME OX DECIDES TO TRY WITH ME. I am DONE with indecision. With coldness, with superiority, with children, with babies on the side, with leftovers.

Because that is what these men have tasted like to me. Leftovers.
And I am a ******* snack, a meal at a Michellin restaurant. A ******* well-rounded, thought through, social, creative and sportive prize.

So who the **** are you to bring me down.

Men remain boys, scared boys
With a questioning face you take them
by their fat finger
It's easy to break

But sometimes they get wrapped up in their game
Then they sleep badly and wake up with a start
from the dreams in which they practise
what they are planning

By day they can't smile
They are busy or absent
and when they leave they shout
that they love you very much

They take it so seriously
It's so important and urgent
that they can't talk about it
until their success is assured

Our silence is their conscience
We can't do more
until it has failed
despite their good intentions

Men remain boys, but
sometimes boys are men
when it comes down to it
Then fear makes them brave
awakening their minds, with an emergency
grasp of maturity

Rich people's sons buy themselves free
and betrothed also manage
to get money, so that
only the poor remain
and some rabble, happy with a salary
sometimes hoping for *****, riches

and women of course, women
have to acquiesce
in worry, fear and sorrow
suffering the pain of men
their frustration, their lust
their dreams

It's the love of men:

obedient to witches --


longing for a friend.