... Man?
What makes a man?
Muscles and toys and hair on their back?
Do you throw together beer, cologne, and testosterone?
A dash of violence, a cup of anger, 2 quarts stubborness,
heat until bubbling hot?
Or is it something more than that, something more than
a tie, a mustache, and a stereotype?
I am not a man,
Not of those things.
I hold out a little hope in the back of my head,
a shard of faith that those girls won't assume I'm arrogant,
stubborn, foolish, insensitive and uncaring, self-centered,
uncreative and self-gratifying. Because I'm a man.
I am not a man,
Not of those things.
Non-men are fathers with infinite patience,
brothers that are sensitive and concerned,
grandfathers that share their wisdom,
just because they love you.
If I could choose, I'd throw in an pint of humor,
a dash of common sense. Stir in self-control, along with
patience and confidence. Mix in humility, creativity, perseverance
and all the love you can stand.
Season to taste.
If I could, I would make being a man something to aspire to,
something to reach for, instead of something to be apologize for.
But I can't.
Don't call me a man.
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