You Can’t spell Menstrual without M-E-N

I have never been made to be a ladies man.
Bukowski said it best,
“I was a slow starter”

I am good now and again for a laugh, quote, drunk joke, and a stoners toke in evaporating moments of the night.

I cannot commit to the experience of splitting my existence.
Too many years now of fending, scraping, and protecting myself.
I lick my own wounds and write my own words.

I do love to write.
Words are my pleasure in life.
It seems the crowd and audience disappears, and I am center stage presenting a play for Kings and Queens.

I don’t see how I could ever trade in this freedom and pain.
I do feel anguish and desperately lonely at times.
I thank god that I still experience these writers moments to refill my pen with ink.
My words are symphonies waiting to be played.

I do love woman as they always break me at the core.
Soft skin,
The way breasts bounce in the open air,
And the way their night attire clings on their every curve.
I catch myself staring with a childlike admiration at how well trained they are at walking in a bikini

Reality is always a different tale than fantasy.
Menstrual cycles, evil bosses you must hear about, bitches yelling in your ear, and all the while you are never good enough to hear what they are saying.

I want the women I can’t have,
Can’t comprehend,
And the ones I do not understand.

I want the women you fight for.
Is it too much to ask to have and make Helen of Troy laugh silly?
Or, to have a blowjob without selling my soul.

She is the one who speaks to men,
But glances my way.

She laughs at some joke they tell,
But that wink belongs to me about their utter stupidity.


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