Independent Man

Why fight the sheep,

When it is so easy to be carried along

By their soft wool

And steady bleating.

 

You see the black sheep,

And are envious of his wool,

But he still follows the rest

And fights for a place amongst the rest.

 

As you are huddled up

With them all surrounding,

The air thins

Despite the open fields.

 

Every sheep follows the dogs orders,

But it is time

– Finally –

To step out on your hind legs,

And test who you are

Against your own wits

And temperaments,

Accepting the judgements of others.

Take a breath of fresh air,

Feel your own surroundings.

 

Escape.

Manliness

 

It is my contentness,

The curl of my smile

And the strength of my palm

As I shake another’s hand.

 

It is the echo of my footsteps

As my shoes percuss upon the ground.

The sentiment fulfils me

Ensuring the pace of my steps.

 

I am simple and straightforward;

And completely uncomplicated

Within the solid boundaries

Of my sense of self.

 

I feel my fingertips,

Beat with my heart,

See with my eyes

And listen with my ears.

The Selfish Man

The selfish man worked hard,

He saved

He spent only what he can afford,

Gets only what he wants.

 

He enjoys the silence,

The solitude,

The smell of leather in his new car.

 

He knows himself,

To the end of his fingertips

And tips of his toes.

Outside his haven

A cloud of spite looms.

 

“Selfish Bastard,” and “Miser,”

Are names that follow him round.

But their hate is sourced

At their greed.

 

He has

What they want,

He has earned

What they want for free.

Father/Son

It is an important time

When I – the son,

Teaches him – the father:

For he is just as frail as you.

At this time I have no support on any side:

Just weightlessness,

Just air.

 

How was I to see if we both

Are blind?

Before you were my lifeline

My anchor and support.

The silence,

As I realised your flaws were level with mine,

As I found us both – human.

 

But soon I gained sight

And I see myself a man,

Just as you are too

Of course you have flaws,

Of course you are human.

And as I see myself,

In that shiny glass

You are there too,

Both of us men,

Side by side,

Just in different skin.

The Animal Inside

Man is an animal

In a social suit.

His white toothed smile

Cloaks the creature beneath.

 

We were once monkeys

And primitive men,

And now we stand as a constant battleground

Falling somewhere between

Constantly pulled towards one

And the other

Leaving us stranded

In between.

 

If we try for our virtue we still bear our teeth,

And if we try for our blood thirst

Then we have our conscience.

Pushed and pulled,

We are neither.

 

 

The Naked Man

Look at the naked man,

How he scoffs at the mirror

As though it is a portrait

Of another.

 

Look at his warts and moles

And broken teeth,

But how he holds his head up high.

 

Each time he stumbles

On a step,

He holds himself highly,

As if it were some great achievement.

But each deluded face he pulls

Is a sign he has fallen more.

Substance of Man

What is man’s substance, you say?

Well he’s made of clay,

And bone,

And flesh.

 

Flesh?

Flesh, what is this meat

That holds only blood

And no soul?

 

If it is just sinew,

Then where do tears come from?

What place does emotion take?

 

What place does thought have in an

Emotional machine?

What cruel humour

Nature has in giving man an ego.

 

But nature has no laughter,

That is only for Man,

And it is his burden

Just as it is his gift.

 

 

Two Boys Fight

Two boys fight in the mud.

The pain of a fist

Is dampened in the rain.

Their tears are washed away.

One sat on the other’s bench,

And action soon came from anger

Now the noble cause has disappeared

And all that matters is the end,

of course.

The winner,

Will stand

– With the same taste sharp of blood on his tongue –

As the loser at his feet.

What point does victory serve

When it is nothing but a proven pretender?

Primitive Man

 

It is in the mirror that we see ourselves

Our hair,

Our lips,

Our eyes.

 

We study this image,

This is what we are,

From what our parents have given to us.

 

Who is from who?

My mother, my father?

But then does that not then recede far down the family tree?

Who was the original me?

How does he stand,

The Neanderthal?

 

If we then stood face to face,

Would he pick at my receded brow,

And be bewildered by my expression?

 

But could I be surprised,

By his actions?

As he is Freud’s id,

Rousseau’s savage man,

Can he not care as I do?

We may have evolved,

But are our emotions not the same?

 

He feels fear, the same as me,

He is curious, and angry

The same as me.

 

But can he be

Just as I am,

In the way he fights laughter

And bottles pain?

How would this Neanderthal act

If he saw a tender act,

Would he stand there confused,

Or smile, and feel the same?

The Insecure Man

The insecure man is a fledgling,
He fights,
Scraps
And scrounges for respect.

His muscles may be big,
His arms – strong
But you can see
In his heart and his eyes:
He is empty,
But for the wild chase of a desperate man.

He sees what he wants in the hearts of others
And believes confrontation is key.
A primitive shove
Lands him in the fray.

He may have won the fight,
But the fear is still in him:
Like a buried seed
Growing into his personality.

Everything he tries shoves him
Further away from his transient goal:
Plunging him deeper
Into cold insecurity.