MEN DON’T CRY

He was never allowed to feel — 
only to function.

They said,
Real men don’t cry.
So he didn’t—
Not at the funeral,
Not when she left,
Not even when he wanted to disappear.

His voice cracked once
They called it weakness.

He was never raised to feel—
only to function.

So he taught himself
how to suffer without sound.
He laughed with his friends,
But no one saw
The fists clenched beneath the table,
Fighting the urge to break.

He showed up every day,
But no one saw
The weight stitched into his smile.

He got quieter,
But no one saw
He wasn’t healing — he was disappearing.

He wanted help
But help came with conditions.
Be strong. Be silent. Be a man.

He is taught to:
Protect.
Provide.
Perform.
Even when he’s empty.

He’s expected to pay the bills,
Hold the house together,
Smile through failure,
Swallow pain like pills.

His depression is renamed:
“Laziness.”
His anxiety?
“Drama.”
His silence?
“Arrogance.”
His trauma?
“Get over it.”

He gets called:
Emotionless. Absent. ATM.
No one asks why he drinks now.
Why he works late.
Why he hasn’t laughed in months.

He gets cheated on-
They ask what he lacked.
He gets abused-
They ask if he fought back.
He gets manipulated-
They call him weak.
He opens up once
He’s called “too much.”
He shuts down—
They say it’s ego.

He can’t win.
So he stops playing.

He didn’t die the day he ended his life
He died the day they told him his pain didn’t matter.

His end won’t trend.
His tears won’t go viral.
His story won’t be believed
Because it’s not poetic
To say:
“He was a man,
And he broke.”

Don’t ask why he didn’t speak.
Ask why no one listened.
Don’t ask why he shut down.
Ask how many times
He was shut out.

Don’t call him toxic for reacting
Call out the system
That never let him feel.

Not all bruises bleed
Some echo inside,
Like footsteps in an empty corridor.
Not all cages have locks
Some look like responsibilities,
Paychecks,
And a quiet nod
That says,
“I’m fine.”

This is the dark side, too
Not of monsters,
But of men
Who became ghosts
While still alive.

A smile can be a mask.
A husband can be a headline.
A coffin can be filled
With silent sacrifice.

You never cared to ask.
And if you still wonder
Where the devils live…

Sometimes, the real devils don’t scream
They whisper, “Man up.”

And sometimes,
The quietest coffins
Carry the loudest pain.

~Stoic Vin~

Writer’s Introduction : Stoic Vin is a poet and writer who finds inspiration in life’s quiet truths, fleeting emotions, and the unspoken depth of human connections. His writings often explore themes of love, loss, healing, and self-discovery. For him, writing is not just a passion—it is a journey: a way to capture moments, embrace honesty, and connect with souls beyond boundaries.

Feel free to Like the write up and follow The GoodWill Blog. Share this with friends and family.

If you want your creations to be published on The GoodWill Blog, Please email us : blogthegoodwill@gmail.com

You can follow us on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter!! Yes…The GoodWill is going to be all around you!!

https://www.facebook.com/thegoodwillblog : Facebook
https://www.instagram.com/blogthegoodwill/ : Instagram
https://twitter.com/GoodWillBlog : Twitter