I don’t deserve
A good woman
Because real men
Are intended
To work

Doing things
Hard yet beautiful
And struggling
Each day
For their kin

Cracking
Thick folds
In their hands
When building lives
Out of branches

Where stones and bricks
Aren’t suited
To homes
That are crafted
From strength

Allowing them
Truth
In their sweat
Like honest drops
Of distinction

With hours
Written as creases
Across jagged
Lines
On their face

Where besides him
She eternally
Waits
Resting her hand
On his shoulders

As he bears
That weight
Of survival
If only to have her
Once more

Unlike
Some have been
Called
To commit themselves
To misfortune

Kneeling
At thrones
Of their muses
Who inspire hurt
Which creates

Providing them
Soulful reprieve
From loneliness
Trailing
Each sentence

As it enters
Hearts
Of those readers
Smart enough
Never to judge

For most
Can’t possibly see
This weight
Of inflicted
Decisions

And emptiness
Drawn from abandon
Which accompanies
Burdens
Called waste

These poems
I’ve sworn
Cannot beg
For pleasures I’ve learned
Are elusive

But merely
Capture their essence
As I slowly
Die
From their words

Like the husband
I never will be
As the answer
Inside
Has been written

By a goddess
Whose kiss
Evoked passions
Since the day
I lusted for verse

Guiding me
Further
Towards God
Or woman within
Who I worship

Carrying faith
As her witness
To a message
Not normal
But fair

That comfort
And wealth
Isn’t hope
Or a sliver of truth
As expected

To ones
Who are chosen
For greatness
And loved by an angel
Which waits

Destroying
All hopes
For a chance
Of having such bliss
As depicted

In marriages
Warm
And convincing
That worthy
Is never this phrase.

– J. Pigno