He is taught his hands are made for holding,
Not the weight of worlds, but tools, and shaking other hands.
His shoulders, a frame for a coat, not a cross hair,
His voice, a command, never a question mark.
Is the world fair to men?
It gives him a map with no coordinates for the heart,
A compass that points only to provision and protection.
He is the assumed mountain, unyielding in the storm,
While the avalanche within him seeks a quiet, nameless form.
He walks a tightrope strung between two spires:
“Be a rock,” they say, “quench all their fires.”
And “Show your soul,” a whispered, faint desire,
But a single tear can brand him as a liar.
So how does he cope? He builds a silent sea,
A pressure chamber where frustrations brew.
In hobbies, in the clink of a glass with a friend,
In the solitary run that never seems to end.
He learns the language of the sidelong glance,
The quiet hum of a steadfast, grim endurance.
Brother, how should we relate?
Not as islands in a cold, competing race,
But as a range of mountains, sharing the same base.
Your summit is my strength; my valley, your rest.
A fortress built on trust, putting camaraderie to the test.
And for the women, the so-called “weaker vessel,” hear this true:
A strong arm’s purpose is to lift, to build, to honor what is due.
Her strength is not of brick, but of the river’s endless flow,
That carves the canyon deep, and makes the oak tree grow.
To be her harbor, not her master, is the mightier design,
For a kingdom shared in partnership is a truly royal sign.
And when the darkness comes, the grey depression’s tide,
He’s told to“man up,” and the hurt is stuffed inside.
But listen: A warrior knows when his own armor’s cracked.
The bravest stand is to admit a part of you is backed
Against the wall. To reach a hand out, to confess the fear,
Is not a surrender; it’s a tactic, sharp and clear.
Plan for the future, yes, lay stone on steady stone,
But build a home for your whole se;f, you do not need to groan
Alone. The highest peak casts the deepest valley’s shade,
A testament to the journey and the price that has been paid.
So learn, oh man, from every scar and fall,
Your own missteps become a weathered, wiser wall.
And in the stumbles of the fathers, brothers, friends, you know,
Lies a library of lessons, helping you to grow.
Do not repeat the ghostly sins of a silent, stoic past,
But forge a new legacy, generous and vast.
For the world may not be fair, but it can still be kind,
To the man who seeks to know the landscape of his mind.
Who carries his atlas not with brute, unfeeling force,
But with the quiet courage of a true, authentic course.
