A poem about insecurity, masculinity, doubt and strength
I think sometimes, that I made the wrong choice.
See it’s not as easy as you think being nice because there very much is a choice behind that smile
That sweet gentle passive beguile
Sometimes I feel like I’m surrounded by morons, big lumbering idiots, slack-jawed, overly burdened with your decorative muscle, dribbling over some poor girls affection or god-forbid your own reflection
But then I realise that the girl in question, turns to the empty headed tinder addict offering a coy smile,
She likes the attention
And I just spent an hour and a half talking about her life, giving her advice and generally being nice and I receive no respite! Bastards!
They’re all troglodytes and these clubs are their caves
This mess of short dressed heathens and their courtly routines, I hate them
Or myself,
Is it that I’m bitter and green because I would rather be the hero of this scene, is it spite that I feel?
Would I give away my open heart and gentle smile just to be the man’s man for a little while?
Could I just be the muscle for a one nights tussle?
Should I change my character because I chose the wrong story…
