I’m too soft to be a man.
Juggling, pushing, hurrying—each of them.
When I step out into the crowd,
I feel the need for a magic wand.
I’m too soft to be a man.

Darwin spoke of the surviving man—
the fittest, the quickest—hungry for more.
Each morning, I read the rage,
spilling across every page.
I fear becoming one of them.
I’m too soft to be a man.

Now I see—he is not a man.
Teaching, unteaching, shaping men.
When consent is claimed,
and morals are drained,
I think God too is not a man.
I’m too soft to be a man.

She held us, showed what is a man.
Breaking, bending every frame they claim.
When they fight to be right,
in my sight,
I see they can be a man.
I’m too soft to be a woman.

© Amit Choudhary, 2012 (Post 11P)

Heard the master shouting,
felt him pull the reins.
I galloped, galloped, and galloped,
with wrists in pain.

I starved for a pat,
and starved for the grain.
Twisted, faster, better—
all strain in the vein.

One day, I broke the tether,
and galloped in the rain.
No reins, no master—
yet I feared the wild again.

I slowed before the morning,
unsure of any aim.
They found me where I started,
and led me back unchanged.

I was leashed before daylight,
the reins felt just the same.
I galloped, galloped, and galloped—
freedom was never the game.

© Amit Choudhary, 2010 (Post 9P)