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//He is no living corpse//

His unsheded tears                                                          only
yearning to come out,                                                    his
His unexressed vehemence                                          sweat
learning not to shout.                                                  Can
He is a man.                                                                 Glitter. 
supposed to be strong.                                                Not
His deserted eyes but                                                       his
Could not hold it for long.                                             tears
He was just about to feel
like he too was a 'flesh and blood' , 
the society but again said the
magical words..

"LADKE NAHI ROTE"
     (Men don't cry)

Sensitive men are adorable. Of course you are emotional and you don't have to be hesitant to show it. . ❤️ We all carry a fragile heart after all❤️😊 say no to stereotyping... Crying never shows weakness, NEVER.... P.C -OGQ #yqbaba #yqquotes #stereotypes #napowrimo #feelings #men

I Think

I'm a fifteen-year kind of man. 
I'm the balding grey of lost memories, 
A lottery of sorts
You could play everyday. 
You could pull at my strings, 
Tune me up
To hear me sing 
"I love you" still 
In the faint echo of
'Hello, 
Is it me you're looking for?'

(please read caption for the entire poem)

I Think - by Navoneil Bhattacharyya I think I'm a fifteen-minute kind of man. I'm a podium, A stage with lights, A mike echoing in the sand. I'm the faint vestige of the dream Hung over That you can't recall. You rack your brains, Scratch your mind For, deep inside, you know - I was something amazing. I'm a fifteen-hour kind of man. I'm a moving-on man, A rebound of past hurts, A wall that'll hug you just as tight As your teddy cushions and cheetos. You could slap me, Dig fingernails in me And I'll keep on smiling, Keep on holding, Keep on feeling Like something special. I'm a fifteen-year kind of man. I'm the balding grey of lost memories, A lottery of sorts You could play everyday. You could pull at my strings, Tune me up To hear me sing "I love you" still In the faint echo of 'Hello, Is it me you're looking for?' I'm a fifteen-second kind of man. I'm the neatly parted hair and briefcase You watch warily When you walk platforms and narrow lanes. You bring your forearms Across your chest As you search for the strength of your safety pin And pepper spray. Some days, you purse your lips As you curse yourself For leaving your hardbound books and ultra-large handbag At home, For they are much better rampart walls Against strange decent-looking men. * At times, I think I'm the man you forget For I brush past Without brushing past - Another bobbing head disappearing In a crowd of umbrellas. I think I'm the man you do not see For I am the hand Holding the umbrella beside you Sneezing in the chill. I think I'm the man too much of a man To be reminded of his place With safety pins And pepper sprays. * And then, But then, I think You've felt too many fifteen-second men Who've cut and bled you for fifteen years. I think You've known too many fifteen-year men Who've sought in you fifteen-hour distractions. I think You've borne the smother of too many fifteen-hour men Who wanted to bury you in sweat for more than fifteen minutes. I think You've heard too many delicious fifteen-minute promises That haven't lasted all of fifteen seconds. * And, so, For this and every other time you've felt and known You deserved better From this and other men, I'm sorry. #yqbaba #airplanepoetrymovement #yopowrimo #writersofindia #writersofinstagram #men #feminism