The word man sounds simple to say,
yet being a man is not that simple a way.
A man—
the one who is told to feel no pain,
to hide his tears, to mask his strain,
to bury emotions deep inside,
and walk with duty as his guide.
If he loves his wife too much, they call him weak,
"A wife-addict," is what they speak.
If he loves his mother with all his heart,
they mock him still, they tear apart—
"A mother's slave," they proudly claim.
And if he loves no one, then comes the blame—
"Selfish," they say, without a thought,
as if his silence means he's bought.
A man cannot cry when his heart breaks,
nor laugh too loud when joy awakes.
He only clenches his teeth so tight,
and carries burdens through the night.
If a woman strikes a man, they cheer,
"She is brave, she has no fear!"
But if a man strikes back in pain,
they curse his name with pure disdain—
a coward, a monster, full of hate,
judged by the world, sealed by fate.
Dogs die at twelve, monkeys at ten,
but in our society, a man dies at twenty-one.
For after twenty-one, he is no longer him,
he becomes a promise, silent and grim.
He becomes loyalty, a living chain,
a shoulder built to hold the pain.
From twenty-one to seventy-five,
he spends his years just to survive—
paying the price, fulfilling the role,
until responsibility steals his soul.
And after seventy-five, when strength is gone,
when the world moves forward and life goes on,
the man himself becomes a weight,
a burden carried by his fate—
on the shoulders of the ones he raised,
forgotten after all his days.
So I say, my brother, hear my plea—
the word man is easy to speak, you see…
but being a man, living that life,
is not simple—
not at all.