Man, not a weak man

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


Men too hurt, they affected by depression and not weakness for them to cry out.

Submitted: August 22, 2018

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Submitted: August 22, 2018

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Tears scurry down his eyes. When he think of the lies, He was fed he cries.

He can’t spin his doom into a good day. Pain stains his windowpanes. He's deep in pain. The kind alcohol can't sedate. And he downs alcohol ‘til late. But thoughts of her won't slip away.

Though it doesn’t help a bit, He’s now a friend with the gin. Everyone can tell he's a wreck. No, he can’t keep his feelings in check. He tried but couldn’t ignore the emptiness he feels within. Couldn’t unfeel the pain or be a ‘man’ about it.

And maybe he heard men don’t cry before. But come night he’ll cry himself to sleep. Grab her pillow and hug it tight, Wishing it was her body. When somewhere out there, She’d be sleeping beauty slipping into her new role - As someone’s fiancée. The role she assumed a month before she closed their chapter.

What do you do when you lose the one thing you adore? Sweep everything under the carpet or weep? Wouldn’t you cry into the night? And you wake up clueless and groggy, But a second she won’t spare - To tell you why her love suddenly bombarded your soul. If it was you, would you be happy? See you can’t just close the blinders.

He gave his heart, To a woman who'd soon depart. A passerby. Someone who doesn't stick around. He asked for her hand, Not knowing the end is nigh. He tried moving on, But his heart belongs to the one Who never loved him back. He's a man, not a weak man, Just broken, desperate, hurting, bleeding.

He is lost, No longer sees the point of living. Last night he played with a handful of pills. He pictured himself finally free from his pain And smiled Today he put a bight around his neck Stood before a mirror and pretended it’s a tie He wonders what he’d look like hanging from the rafters

Would he look like someone worth hanging on to? Would she regret leaving him then? Would she wish him back? ‘Love me when I’m gone’ He pictures her lying over his grave, Chanting spells to summon him from the him from the land of the dead. Snatch him from death’s grip

He pictures himself free from the hurt. Smiles at the thought. He hates being haunted by her memories. Hates that his heart beats only for her still.

He is a man. Having lost his grip. He keeps running between - A yawning grave and the mouth of a bar, Trying to douse his feelings. After all he is a man ask to not feel what he feels.


© Copyright 2018 Angela Bontle Ditumiso. All rights reserved.

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