poetry

Creating Monsters out of Men

When they were seventeen they believed in all possibilities, in romance budding out of chivalry, in music borne out of meaning and soul but  over the years their hair turned grey, their bodies slowly realigned to concave and their skins evolved from smooth and sweet to bitter and dry and  their eyes stopped shimmering with endless potential and instead focused on inhibitions, and coherence beyond their grasp, and despite their desperate will and motivations to render themselves free, they’ve buried themselves in resentment and responsibility until the air that was once furious with love and kindness transformed into a torrid atmosphere marked by bills and 9 to 5s, and actions permanently scheduled for “another day”, “someday” and “next year”, and now left wondering how love works (is it okay for a person to be completely and inherently in love one day, only to be consumed by hate the next?), how adult lives begin, and whether or not to lay the blame on expectations and sacrifices that seem to pile on each other, over the years, only to create monsters out of men.

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