Men think that they hold the power of the world.
They keep the power of the world
Hidden from view,
In their pants.
Locked and loaded
Chiseled to a fine point for easy entry.
Ready to embed itself into anything warm and furry.
They don’t feel the need to have a personality
Just be in possession of …
and maybe money.
They think that women who refuse
Are misinformed, missing something
So they can’t possibly say no.
Saying no means they haven’t seen it
Understood the POWER of it
The need of extra credit for the size of it
The skin slapping against skin of it
The self-absorbed admirable beauty of it
When all it is,
Is a tipping point
The end of an extension.
And if the story is true that man was molded from clay,
Is the place where he was separated from the living clay.
Maybe it was intended to be something else …
Another hand, an extra foot,
A divining rod, or something yet unnamed
When it was pinched off from the excess clay
With that part left unfinished
Hanging without purpose
When its maker got distracted.
Powerless unless held to be stimulated, activated or eliminating,
For spilling seeds, self-admiration, or emptying water.
An appendage as funny looking as an elephant’s trunk
Causing hysteria (or revulsion)
But it is all an illusion.
They have fooled themselves with their fragile masculinity
Because it is the woman who holds the power.
Their power, too, is hidden from view
But held in the center of her being
Protected by flesh and bone
To issue the real fruit of the world
Women evolved to not needing to be stimulated
Even those without fertile seeds
Hold the power
Because mothering comes from the heart
Not the loins.
It is the ability to love and love and love
Unlimited, unrestricted, infinitely.
And because mothering in healthy soil
Is the necessity for all things living.