Man's hypocrisy,
Awe-inducing and confusing
Displaying his trophies,
Sating his exhibitionist tendencies,
While incensed with onlooker's ogling
Fearing the image of his
Feminine mantle dressing
Gone
Pilfered by villains
Stricken with entitlement,
Thinking:
"He's unworthy,
That relic is
Rightfully mine."
Men know this.
Hence the suppression of Braggadocio,
Obscuring his prize,
Keeping the lecherous dregs from
Beholding such a
Sight
The golden nakedness ...
For his eyes
Only.
... I am no different from these sorts,
In my selfish contradictions,
I too desired the beauty of those
Quasi-streetwalkers,
Yet only on
MY terms.
In my mind's sardonic idealism
Those vice-models vacated places
With the mannequins of their flesh
Displayed
And donned the nudity of
Their boyfriend's
Devotion.
And while I'm not one for burkas,
They'd step into the day,
Draped in the darkness of
Introversion.
Yet realism dissipates the clouds of dreams,
And I know.
I know.
Blankets dangling from windows,
Soft tap of tiptoes,
Hushed voices on the phone,
Putrid alcoholic scent,
Late nights,
Red eyes,
Insecurity,
Boredom,
Arguing,
Breakup,
Newness,
Alone.
YOU ARE READING
Romantically Incorrect
PoesíaBorn, raised, and currently living in Detroit, Michigan, Morgan Coby is a combination of many different things around him: the gritty realities of the city where he dwells, and the wondrous idealism from the fictional worlds of stories, cartoons, an...
