What defines a man?
Someone with dignity? Someone with shame?
Someone vulnerable, or “someone” in vain?
A vague answer—I’ll be honest then,
Society’s standards? Cruel and dishonest, man.
You speak up—you’re disregarded.
You make an effort—you’re outsmarted.
You do nothing? You’re called a bastard regardless.
Try to hold ground? Your stance gets blasted.
Vulnerability. Breakdowns. Mental fatigue.
A man’s life—just pain with no relief.
A faint smile, a brief breath, penned on a sheet.
That’s what this is, boys—so buckle your seats while I preach.
A man’s life is a lie.
His smile, his words—his emotions, all a disguise.
He lies because he cares.
He finds ways to fix, not vanish into thin air.
His day begins with thoughts of his loved ones,
And ends with them.
Yet the only flowers he ever receives
Are laid at the end.
Poor appreciation. No oxytocin—
That’s how he lives.
All he wants is to see his family smile,
To make ’em proud, and meet every wish.
Loving children and an adorable wife,
Still, he gets caught in conflict and strife.
Trapped in the webs, looking for light—
He knows no matter how loud he shouts,
It’s all silent. Mute. No sound in sight.
He doesn’t complain like he used to do.
This masked way of living? He’s grown used to.
A constant tug-of-war with everything.
Wearing the mask, that smile, and the pretending.
’Cause this is a judgmental world,
Where male discomfort is dismissed as vile.
No one cares for a man—
“That’s just how they are,” says Society with a smile.
“A man should be tough.” “Stop being so weak.”
“Only a weakling cries.”
Why these beliefs?
Is a man not human? Can’t he break—
Even once, without being called fake?
Can’t these so-called standards vanish for a jiffy?
Let the noise hush, just for an iffy.
The situation’s looking a bit tricky.
So much for equality—when the loudest cries dissolve a man too
quickly.
No offense to victims, but truth gets murky when empathy turns
picky.
We need balance, not blame—before the silence gets sticky.
So much for fairness, when power plays the sound—
And those holding the mics are just money-hungry hounds.
But let me leave you with names they forgot to pronounce—
Prometheus, who stole fire so men might renounce
The cold chains of darkness, gave light for free,
And was punished by gods for daring to see.
Or Sigurd the Valiant, who slew Fáfnir the beast,
A man, not divine—just brave, to say the least.
He bathed in the blood, understood the birds’ song,
Betrayed by the world, yet stood strong all along.
These weren’t monsters. These were men.
Not flawless—but free, with a truth in their pen.
So next time they say, “All men are the same,”
Remember the fire. Remember the flame.
One man can burn,
And still change the game.
-Asher Graves
