As the first fleecy snowflakes fall to the ground, 

then disappear, in winter, 

it floats through the skies on the gentlest breeze, 

as quiet as a whisper. 

Blink and you will miss it—it

 is smaller than a sliver. 

Delicate as crystal and nearly twice as brittle,

one misstep and it will shatter;

decorating the ground like shrapnel. 

Feeble as a fleece slipper 

sliding across a cotton floor;

it has become as frail as origami

made of candy floss, sold by the seashore.

Programmed to roar although 

all it can muster is a single pathetic mew, 

striving to be bold 

but it is only the lightest hues. 

Dainty like the breaking dawn 

and its glistening, gossamer dew, 

it secretly dreams of being steel 

but is soft 

as stained glass over pews. 

Society is to blame 

for this fragile masculinity, 

that brainwashes boys into 

becoming men who are afraid to feel. 

This misunderstood manliness 

is more timid than the shrew, 

as it tells males their ideas 

are best expressed through abuse. 

"Boys don't cry," we're told, 

encouraging us to be aggressive, 

until our repressed emotions return, 

with a vengeance, as depression. 

Being masculine is not 

the opposite of being feminine, 

all it takes to be a man 

is to simply identify as one. 

Unless we refuse 

to accept their opinions, 

nothing can ever change. 

We must rally together 

and reject 

their toxic masculinity that reigns.