A Real Man - Poem by Foster Davis
I sing a song late of frustration,
Pulling thorns from a thin-skinned back and breast.
While, poor me, I chide my introspection.
A real man would blow this off with a jest.
Tears would come when, late at night,
Alone, away from spouse, a cry is accepted,
A moan, alright.
Comments about A Real Man by Foster Davis
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- IfRudyard Kipling
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- TelevisionRoald Dahl