He is a monster—no poet
With jaws of concupiscence
He tears away at Her love
And leaves a broken woman

She—too prideful to admit the fall
Lives in acceptance with actions
Justifies, though unjustifiable He is
And alone She weeps, accompanied dries

He does indeed care for her pain
But He is Man
And as Man, must spit upon pain
He wishes to f*** and nothing more

She loves him for this?
And why, I cannot tell
She gives Herself, in life to Him
Through death She professes Her love

He denies love
—He claims it as such
But blankets His lust
And She adores Him for these words

She f***s Him
And bares into time children
Who follow the mold as they are taught
Mirrors of them

Am I to be a Man?
Such as my father
No—I renounce Man
And choose love

But what is love?
There is no woman to love me
My words are none
And His are elaborate and long

And where there is no love
There is nothing but demise
And my silence is at home there
And never leaves