What does it mean to be a man?

The mirror shows a curve where angles should reside, A softness in the cheek, a grace the world denies. They call it "wrong," this whisper in his stride, A dissonance they hear, behind his gentle eyes. He likes to braid his hair, a silken, flowing stream, And finds a solace in the fabrics, bright and bold. But hands will clench to fists, and laughter turns to scream, "You're not a man!" the chorus, harsh and cold. He learns to guard his heart, a fragile, hidden thing, Beneath the weight of labels, clumsy, cruel, and mean. He dreams of quiet gardens, where the flowers softly sing, But wakes to judgment's glare, a cold and stark machine. The world demands a strength that's measured by the fist, A stoicism forged in fire, never to show pain. But his strength lies in his empathy, the love he can't resist, A gentle understanding, blooming like the rain. He longs to be accepted, not a puzzle to define, To share the tender parts, the beauty he perceives. He wants to be acknowledged, for the soul that makes him shine, Not judged by rigid boundaries, that society believes. So tell me, what's the measure of a man, truly, deep? Is it the hardened edge, the power to subdue? Or is it in the spirit, the promises we keep, The kindness we extend, the love that sees us through? He may not fit the mold, the patterns they dictate, But in his gentle heart, a vibrant spirit thrives. And maybe, just maybe, he can help us see of late, The beautiful complexity, in all our different lives. What it means to be a man, is not a rigid form, But rather in the courage, to be uniquely free. To stand with grace and dignity, through life's relentless storm, And find the strength to simply… be.