Sad Boy Poetry

There’s been a lot of talk lately amongst the literati about why men don’t read fiction anymore, why cisgender, heterosexual male interiority is underrepresented in modern literature, and how [White] women — as writers, agents, editors, and readers — dominate traditional publishing.

These concerns are valid, and merit serious discussion and analysis. Alas, I’m not the man for that job. I wrote several “sad boy poems” instead, which just might reveal some darker truths.

False Promises

Sitcoms said I could be,
lazy,

stupid,

unconscionably stupid,

venal,

duplicitous,

violent,

resentful,

and bigoted,

marry a model,
purchase a home,
produce two 
healthy,
beautiful children,
and live
the American Dream.

Misandrist Meme

No matter how handsome,
clever,
or charming 
he is,
somebody,
somewhere,
is tired
of his bullshit.

Male Exteriority, Part One

This is my penis.
There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My penis is my best friend.

It is my life.
I must master it as I must master my life.

Without me, my penis is useless.
Without my penis, I am useless.

Male Exteriority, Part Two

Mom,
I would die,
without my penis,
right?

Biological Realities

Women are weaker.
Women are dumber.
Women should cook,
clean,
care for children,
and 
curtail ambition,
to serve 
me.

Of these self-evident truths,
I am certain.

And yet,
I can’t understand
why
no woman
wants to fuck me
or
read my novel.

Self Improvement

Twitter for the lolz.
YouTube for the facts.
Reddit for the memes.
Telegram for the brotherhood.
Insta for the eye candy.
Pornhub for the urges.
Aquaphor for the chafing.
Adderall for the anxiety.
Hennessy for the depression.
Oxy for the pain.
Remington for the relief.