Poetry

Let us sing as we lie.

Poetry for the lost

You are not as tired as the man I saw weeping.
A failing beast clutching the fading pictures of war.
Sometimes I thank God I don’t have to see so well.
That my sight is too faint for the beautiful bleeding child on the map.
On the streets of forgotten.
Is this what I have become?

Let me sing this irony
Nothing in my life has been battered, no torn or stain
My life is a sweet song
I do not need to pray, the men around me will not scar my skin
Will not bury their blades in my eyes
Will not scald my innocence and watch me suffer.
I was allowed to grow, without having to fight in bed- the strangeness of a man.

Let me sing this irony
My parents told me I love you, whispered these things in my ears.
Listened when I cried
And did not tell me, a boy to be a man
Did not tell me that girls were reprisals for my being
Did not tell me that toxic was to be male.

Leave the irony
Can you hear me?
Is this what we have become?

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