No Manly Thing


It’s no manly thing,
this poetry lark:
banging in silly syllables
in the cluttered workshop of a darkened mind.

It’s not a womanly thing either,
coddling newborn words,
swaddling them in warm towelled poems,
homed in the page’s scrubbed whiteness;

and it’s not a childlike thing,
these letters,
haphazard bricks
with little chance of a hope of sense,
flung tantrummed on the nursery floor.

It’s just me
making shadows black enough
for the illusion of sunlight.

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4 thoughts on “No Manly Thing

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