If I lose my place,
  I'm sure to be triggered.
I must find a safe space,
  so I'm not reconfigured.

If someone I've met
  as I go through my day,
yells at me or my pet,
  we'll both run away.

If a person protests
  my political views,
it causes such stress,
  it gives me the blues.

I'm a sensitive guy,
  so I run from all trouble.
Just don't ask me why-
  you may burst my bubble.

I have to come out.. I won't offer lies..
there's something I just can't disguise,
my tastes are different than other guys..
I'm simply in love with chicken *** pies!

It started when I was quite small in size,
when mom shopped for her weekly supplies.
She worked all day and thought it'd be wise
to make *** pies one of her regular buys.

Loved 'em then, and this truth still applies-
Don't give me fried chicken wings or thighs,
don't serve a burger with greasy old fries,
don't cook fancy foods and don't improvise..

There's one taste sensation I dearly prize!
The best frozen meal you could ever devise!
If you want to impress or want to surprise,
just cook up a couple of chicken *** pies!

Now that this poem has reached its demise,
I'll pre-heat the oven and say my goodbyes.

After writing my first limerick,
my mind went on this metrical kick.
The words I'd compile
all had the same style
and my poetry sounded quite sick.

I'd start with paper and pen
to write to my closest of kin.
I'd try to think
what to write with the ink,
but found I'd done it again.

It seems the harder I tried
to set this bad habit aside,
the more I'd conceive
with a poetic weave,
rhyming which wouldn't subside.

Many times I would complain,
this poetry form is insane -
for every rhyme
keeps the same time,
becoming ingrained on the brain.

Years I've been in this state,
with rhymes to relay and relate.
Repeating these verses
and uttering curses..
It makes me so very irate..

So I'll offer poetic advice,
don't let this writing entice..
Don't step in a trap
full of limerick crap,
just let a nice sonnet suffice.

The one who said "Big boys don't cry"
has surely stated a terrible lie..
For as they're free to eat and sleep,
they should be free to laugh or weep..

Blessed be the boy who mourns
who cries as though his heart were torn,
for comfort comes to the broken soul,
to heal the heart, to make it whole..

As growing boys are becoming men,
they'll find the need to cry again..
They need to know, through all life's storms -
real men may weep while writing poems..