How Are Men, You Ask?

 How are men, you ask?

Well… let me tell you a story.

Not just a tale, but a truth wrapped in wind,
Of men like trees, who bend—not always break—in the spin.

Their leaves fall quietly in seasons of pain,

Yet they stand, bark bruised, whispering in rain.

I've seen them silent—
Fists clenched like unopened roses,

Frowns carved deep like rivers in old oaks,
Holding back storms no one notices.

Yes, they cry...
Not always with water, but with weight—
Tears that hide behind shut doors and a dinner plate.
And sometimes, oh sometimes—
They howl…
Like wolves under full moons, skin raw with fire,
Voice cracking like thunder through an old church choir.

But they laugh too—
Laughter like birdsong caught between beams,
Soft, strange, hopeful—like dreams stitched in seams.

They are not myths carved in stone or steel,
But humans, breathing, breaking, learning to heal.

In love?

They grow roots—
Strong, deep, curling like a poem beneath the earth,
But only if the soil is kind...
Only if it knows their worth.

They fall.
Oh, they do.
Like stars no one claps for, silent and true.
But they rise again,
Like dawn on tired skin,
Like phoenixes sipping coffee, tucking their fire within.

Are they sky?

Yes.
But not always blue—
They drift, like clouds do, sometimes dark, sometimes new.

Are they masculine?

Yes.
But also messy,
Also soft,
Also full of “I’m sorry” that never got off.

I've seen them fly—
Wings not feathered but fueled by dreams,
Building nests out of paychecks and midnight schemes.
Tying branches with bruised hands,
Giving their breath to someone else's plans.

They don’t always hide—
Sometimes they speak.
In glances, in silence, in things they seek.

So how are men?

They’re not gods or ghosts or puzzles to fix.
They are forests and fires,
Storms and quiet tricks.

They are stories.
Just like this.
And if you listen—really listen—
You’ll hear them whisper in the wind,

“I’m human too... let me begin.”