Real men don’t cry

real men don’t cry

they mourn their dead fathers

they light their mothers’ pyres

even bury their kids

pay their mortgage

the debt they owe

to all those who can take from them

and have taken

despite the filial familiarity

the friendships

real men don’t cry

at the hopelessness

of a dying sun

at the crawling night

and the unoriginal prose

of working in a city

with menial pay

and longer work hours

the constant abuse

and then the country liquor

the bar brawls

coming home to their simple wives

damaged and hurting

hating every single comfort

even the outline of their mouths

beating them senseless

with the baby crying in the background

real men don’t cry

their women do.

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