A poem for the man
who cannot admit that he loves.
He cannot love, he cannot feel
He cannot be human.
For the man who laughs
to hide his fear and pain,
Who buries himself in work
convinced that money brings happiness,
because money is stable.
Money doesn’t speak.
Money doesn’t demand.
Money doesn’t leave.
For the man who has learned to lie so well
that he convinced even himself
that he doesn’t care.
But it’s easy to see through the façade
when he’s lost for words…
The inconsistencies…
A poem for the man
who doesn’t have the vocabulary
to talk about emotions.
He thinks pretending they don’t exist makes him mature
Crying is weakness.
Feeling is weakness.
Loving is weakness.
People are distractions…
His love shines through
unmistakably
when he remembers all the tiny details
that everyone else has forgotten about.
Yet he pretends he’d forgotten
how he felt about love and pain,
changing his story every day.
I wonder what the meaning of life is
for a man like that?
© 2023 Marieke de Koker
Comments