Men do not cry,
they are told.
They are trained to bear it all
at their breaking point.

Before society,
they trade tenderness
for the show of strength.

They must be in command,
not gentle.
They must shoulder responsibility
and keep walking,
even when it hurts to walk.

They do not share with their fathers.
They inherited silence
from stern men
who swallowed sorrow
and called it courage.

They do not speak before their mothers.
A mother’s soft sight sees too deeply,
so they suppress their sadness
behind a steady smile.

They do not express themselves before their lovers.
They call concealment care.
They hide the hurt,
the failure,
the fear,
as if quietness could spare another heart
from the storm inside their own.

But men forget
that silence does not always become strength.
What they swallow
does not soften.
What they hide
does not heal.

They must be taught
not only to endure,
but to open.
Not only to stand,
but to speak.

It is human to tremble.
It is human to fail.
It is human to cry.

What remains unspoken
does not disappear.
Sometimes,
it is silence
that shapes the scar.

© Tryambak Srivastava
May 23, 2026
Dallas, TX, USA