Virulent.

As the first fleecy snowflakes fall to the ground, 
then disappear, in winter, 
it floats through the skies on the gentlest breeze, 
as quiet as a whisper. 

Blink and you will miss it—it is smaller than a sliver. 
Delicate as crystal and nearly twice as brittle,
one misstep and it will shatter;
decorating the ground like shrapnel. 

Feeble as a fleece slipper 
sliding across a cotton floor;
it has become as frail as origami

made of candy floss, sold by the seashore. 

Programmed to roar although 
all it can muster is a single pathetic mew, 
striving to be bold 
but it is only the lightest hues. 

Dainty like the breaking dawn 
and its glistening, gossamer dew, 
it secretly dreams of being steel 
but is soft as stained glass over pews. 

Society is to blame 
for this fragile masculinity, 
that brainwashes boys into 
becoming men who are afraid to feel. 

This misunderstood manliness 
is more timid than the shrew, 
as it tells males their ideas 
are best expressed through abuse. 

"Boys don't cry," we're told, 
encouraging us to be aggressive, 
until our repressed emotions return, 
with a vengeance, as depression. 

Being masculine is not 
the opposite of being feminine, 
all it takes to be a man 
is to simply identify as one. 

Unless we refuse to accept their opinions, 
nothing can ever change. 
We must rally together and reject 
their toxic masculinity that reigns. 

Gentry Fried.

Wolf of wall street types,
with slicked back hair,
stole the stained ceramic tiles
right out from underneath
my single mother's
sweet, aching feet.

She saved every penny
that she earned,
to buy this house–
her pride and joy–
only to be evicted
by sharks
disguised as sheep
who dragged her out
between their teeth.

Immediately painting over
offending graffiti
with signs that read,
'Starbucks: coming soon'
like the kiss of death,
with another five
within twenty feet,
where my b-boy crew and I
once breakdanced
to the Beastie Boys
and Run DMC.

Ma was relocated
forcefully to some
suburban scene,
that might as well
have been called Hell,
instead of Parish Street.

She stuck out like an alien,
an unwelcome stranger
in this neighbourhood,
where whiney women
wined and dined
on weekdays,
then attended church
on Sunday evenings.

Still, they locked
their cars from the inside
when mom had the audacity
to step foot outside her door.

This community of Stepford wives,
that looked down on my madre
from their horses high,
were more self-righteous
than born again convicts
intent on preaching to the choir.

Gentrify some other guy,
erect your crooked condos
in some other sky!

As you build profit,
and raze projects
that once unified
people who would
never have seen
eye to eye otherwise.
Different cultures came together,
mingling with one another,
leaving prejudice behind;
these meetings even
drastically reduced crime.

Until the men in black arrived
with their pockets lined,
drooling over future
bank account balances
that were stacked sky-high.

Single mothers, tossed aside,
fell so low on the social hierarchy
that they simply remained silent,
in spite of the tears in their eyes.

Another ghetto fairy tale
that would not end
with 'happily ever after'
but instead,
just with a single sigh.
.

Maktub.

When we strive to become better than we are, 
the world around us gets better, too. 
The universe hears the aching uncertainty in our hearts
so, be patient as it clears a path for us to pursue. 

Whether through prayer or wishes made in wells, 
the stars will align to light our way.
If it is written, only time will tell, 
until then find delight in every blessed day. 

If you should encounter calamity upon your soul's quest, 
hold tightly to your faith and keep marching on. 
Even if you fall seven times before you pass the test, 
the secret of life is to keep getting up until all fear is gone. 

Do not forget the universe exists inside of you. 
Like alchemy–you are the winds, deserts, oceans, and even the moon. 
The denial of your own self-worth is just like blasphemy.
Love yourself so brightly that your dreams are drawn to you.

If it is written, take a deep breath, 
and soon you will know the truth; 
close your eyes and listen to your spirit 
as it softly whispers "Maktub."

hate that i love u.

Nearly four years to the day 
since I first saw your pretty face, 
funny how life works that way.
It's like you vanished in thin air without a trace, 
left me replaying all the things you used to say,
like, "Baby, you're my favourite member of the human race" 
and that you'd always be right here to stay.
Now you've got me falling from grace,
cancelled all my colours, and you left me gray.
Stuck here missing you, addicted to the chase,
but I can't keep at these games you wanna play,
in the hopes of one day feeling your embrace.
You're still the sculptor and I am your clay.
Brighter than all the stars in outer space, 
now all that's left to do is pray,
'til I accept you're really gone and not just misplaced.