Vile are the hands of he
who builds naught with them, he
breaks only the precious wooden box
of a woman’s trust, with a single strike.
So putrid is the heart of he
who would turn away his child, he
retches at the homosexual,
his own sick flesh.
The flaccid muscle of he
who fails the promises he
sees no profit or pleasure in,
this still is a man.
A man like many men,
There are scores of such men,
Murderous, false and mercenary,
still whole men.
I am seething, each sunrise
I wake, half-a-man, each sunrise
Though I give, nurture, build,
My word is good, but I am half-a-man.
What nature gave whole to them
Is withheld from me, what flesh to them
is the focal point of man
I am told I do not strictly need.
prince nothing 