Someone You Shouldn't
Written during depression and poverty and facing the stigma everyone , especially men, face when communicating mental pain. I hope this dark poem gives others permission to not suffer silently
Are you getting caught loving and lusting again Do you love someone you shouldn't Do you have a plan A or B through Z or will you wing it Will you wing it or will you skip it What feathers will you ruffle while blowing your crestfallen nose in What phyrric victory will you wring of all meaning Is there an attic or basement to provide privacy for your keening Somewhere you figure no one can hear you but they probably could if they chose to Face forward, eyes darting around Fugitives just can't be forthcoming in every day situations Never be the first to confess anything or you'll be abandoned to your punishment Fantasy is reality's punishment but at least we have our limited freedom You can lie and pine wherever you please within reason You can hate your life in a sun dappled park or a bus terminal in the dark You can go without at work or at Walmart or in your room You can having nothing everywhere in this land of opportunity Why aren't you gelling with the jingoism Why isn't your smile sterling A real man's grin never loses its sorrow proofing A guy too sad to shovel shit is just a brat Why can't you take it like a man who isn't there and be resigned to that
Well done!
This poem feels like someone whispering the truth they’re too ashamed to say out loud, half‑laughing to hide how much it hurts.
The questions about loving “someone you shouldn’t” sound like the voice of a person who keeps stumbling into desire because they’re starving for connection.
The humour about plans A through Z feels like a shield a way of coping with the chaos of wanting what you can’t have.
The attic and basement aren’t just hiding places; they’re the emotional corners where people go to fall apart quietly, hoping no one hears.
Calling the speaker a “fugitive” captures that feeling of living on the run from your own longing, terrified of being exposed.
Fantasy becomes both sanctuary and punishment the only place where desire is allowed to breathe, even as it suffocates.
The poem’s landscapes parks, bus terminals, Walmart show how sadness travels with you, settling into every ordinary space.
The mockery of “sterling smiles” reveals a world that demands men be cheerful machines, never trembling, never breaking.
The line about being “too sad to shovel shit” is cruel because it names how society treats sorrow as laziness instead of a wound.
And the final line “take it like a man who isn’t there” is devastating, because it exposes the truth: the version of masculinity he’s supposed to embody never existed, and he’s left trying to live up to a ghost.