Men Don’t Cry
It is said by some that men don’t cry,
but what is this liquid beverage
streaming down my cheek?
Fueled by consistent woe,
a waterfall of triumphant plight
threatans to crucify this face
of mine with endless grains
of salt. My face will become a beach,
but the touch of gorgeous women
will be absent from its barren fixture.
If only there was someone
for me in this mating game,
but never do bachelorette’s
fall for men, plucked by the pull
of exponential sadness. Women
adore men of strength and honor,
and sadly, I am out of both.
I could cry aloud about how content
I am with the current situation,
but the honest truth
is that life is better lived
with someone there beside you,
and in my case the reserved seat
has remained vacant for longer
than I could ever hope to fathom.
The pain of never knowing
love is drenched in blissful ignorance,
but the agony which consumes
my now wretched heart
is from having this glorious emotion,
and feeling it ripped
right out from my arms.
If only I was empty, then never
would I be consumed, and instead
of love, all I feel is the touch
of absentee happiness,
and to leave this planet
with such awful err, would be pain
beyond all possible comprehension.