(This is a poem about today’s “normal” men in context to the so-called “man” due to which women are made insecure.)
He sits there silently in his room,
Reluctantly spending time with a lifeless book.
He wished he wasn’t there; what else could he do?
The only friend that the world had to offer was a crook.
This man shuts his book and thinks
Why are my fellows in a rat race for doom?
Unable to conclude, he takes his coffee and drinks
And takes out a pen to write what you could never assume.
“I am afraid, not of the dark;
Not even a dagger do I fear.
But I am afraid that a fellow of mine,
Would never again let me show who I am.
For he made her an object of lust,
For he made us one she can never trust.
I despise this fellow of mine,
Who made her a broken soul.
For him, she can’t stand beside us;
I was never a party to this.
For him, we are no longer humans,
But earmarked savages…
All I do want,
Is to hold her hand.
In hope, she would not mistake me,
For my fellow man’s brand.
Yes, I am a man,
But Today’s men don’t let me live like one.
For a man would not want her to weep
But to make a promise she’d trust he’d keep.”
Writing all this, he shuts his book;
He murmurs a wish that might once be heard.
That one day his fellow would be a man,
And let her soul fly like a free bird.
That one day she may know
Today’s men aren’t tomorrow’s hollow.