QUIET STORM

When the past comes to haunt you,
it doesn’t knock, it moves in.
It watches you grind,
it studies your growth,
and it waits for the cracks that still remember yesterday.

You try to rise, to do better.
But people stand back with clean hands,
offering distant support so they don’t get dragged and dirty if you fail.

Your pussy ain’t fucking, your wife with the pretty lips ain’t fucking, and you wonder why they call you handsome, but you don’t look in the mirror after you take your hand and get you some.

Growth gets ugly.
Healing gets lonely.
But the quiet storm?
That’s where real men are forged.