All day long, we cry for freedom,
for the cupid to strike their
hearts and make them finally see
that we’re worth more than those
muscular bad boys they fall for,
just brawn with no substance
who splinter their poor hearts,
making them rush to us,
and spill their woes like vomit,
which we endure
while comforting them,
simping and lying on the floor
like a threadbare carpet
to be walked on.
Some of us have it worse,
we’re demoted
to brotherzones with
no chance of sparks
forming at all.
Even so, we grit our teeth,
offer a shoulder to cry on,
a stomach to punch,
and then breathless and wheezing
weep oceans of anguish.
Why must love be so hard?
Why must fate be so cruel?
The roses we give elicit an ‘aww’ or
a ‘you’re so sweet,’ and nothing more.
They’ve even asked
some of us to touch
their titties
and platonically tell them
if they’ve grown bigger.
And we suppress
arousal, and with a smile and a whiny
voice please them. It’s hard not to
fall into incelhood, to open up
4chan or some sleazy site and write
a misogynistic rant about
bitches and whores,
but maybe one day they’ll see that
we care and we’re here,
their knights in shining armour,
their Prince Charmings standing
right in front of them.
Ordinary Person 
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