Men are Allowed to Cry

Men are allowed to cry.
To leak into damp dreams,
To long for the one never gotten,
Hunt down the ones hardly so,
And still smell the ceaseless vacancy,
It’s all right to talk blades out of open wrists,
And be finished in a quaking crowd.
To be just drained enough,
And still supply sound direction.
To give away the crumbs of your soul,
And still enjoy the tired music on the train.
It’s okay to fail so wildly,
To die a little to an olden smell.
Little nothing, little somethings,
Be easy with darkness.
Men are allowed to cry there,
The mending comes after,
When the dawn smells of design.
Isn’t that why we do it?
Cry in the dark?

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