"condescension" poems
The virtuous society Lost regulates overwhelming
DISTASTEFUL
Condescension
Depraved citizens all contained then become cynical
BREAKING
Reprehension
A mandate or suggestive guideline to think like a criminal
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
Love is not condescension, never
that, nor books, nor any marking
on paper, nor what people say of
each other. Love is a tree with
branches reaching into eternity
and roots set deep in eternity,
and no trunk! Have you seen it?
The mind cannot. Your desiring
cannot. The longing you feel for
this loves comes from inside you.
When you become the Friend, your
longing will be as the man in
the ocean who holds to a piece of
wood. Eventually, wood, man, and
oceans become one swaying being,
shams Tabriz, the secret of God.
11k
http://m.wikihow.com/Unhook-a-Bra
Pinch the eyelets but oh so gently,
To properly unhook the device to safely release paradise
From it's containment chamber.
This be one of many secrets to unlocking
The mechanism that holds some of the happy things
The human body artist conceived
To perpetuate the
Species.
According to the internet,
To extract joy to the world correctly,
Depends upon both your station and your
Positioning.
Thus, it helps to have GPS,
Which most men think is that pointy thing
Between their legs,
But is not.
Given the laws of gravity,
And other natural limitations,
Sadly that utensil of little avail
In this surgical operation.
If one desires to release the tension
Between the connectors of the protectors,
Guardians of her heart,
It will be necessary to
Let your fingers do the walking.
So cut and paste the title above,
In your web browser place!
Do your homework or risk feeling
As petite as a schnauzer.
Seems your natural tendency,
Righty or lefty, matters in this endeavor,
Of which I was unawares, oft pressing the incorrect lever.
This, the likely cause of my spectacular
Teenage
Fumblings and failures.
Had I known that fact,
In the days before the Internet,
Surely I would have brought along my
Catchers mitt
To step up my game.
Sage advice the article provides:
*Get a bra, and practice, practice, practice!
It gets easier with experience.*
But methinks that is a bit of a
Risky adventure,
Lest you be seen boy,
Practicing upon yourself,
Or even a dummy,
Dummy!
So cut and paste the title above
In your web browser,
Do your home work or risk feeling
As petite as a pocket schnauzer.
But the most important tip
This wealthy article of information provides,
The conclusion.
In the hour of your desperate struggle,
Drooping
Ego
And
Crushed
Pride,
Ask for assistance from one more practiced,
Hopefully nearby,
Whose help usually comes with a charming smile
of touching condescension
For your male idiocy and verbal in-articulation.
*She, unawares, that you have got her
Positioned precisely where you want!*
For when you lift her up,
In a free state, the one Divinity intended,
and in your arms, enfolded and protected,
In one grand poetic gesture,
Sweep her off her feet,
Her surprise will be
**..
O
So Touching!**
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
Oh Heiress!
My heiress
You date many men
At the least you've dated eighteen
That's in the last few years
But you're royalist of blood
Makes you special
For you're the heiress
To become The Condescension!
So date who you wish
Be deflowered if you want
But know this
I'll remember this always
Violet's always remember
Especially those who were close
Stay away from Jason!
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
When you die I will surely mourn,
I will miss the warmth of your embrace,
A blanket in the cold cruelty of the night,
I will miss how you'd tell me,
"Darling, it'll be better in the morning"
But it'll only be better after the mourning,
Oh Mother we're all going to die,
That's certain,
And there will be just as much not to miss,
I will not miss your words sharp as blades,
Cutting away slowly at my insides,
And the way they stuck like severed tacks in my mind,
I will not miss your beliefs,
So isolated and different from mine,
Your good intentions and fouler methods,
I will not miss the strike of your hands,
Like thunder,
Or your temper,
Like a hurricane,
Nor the vigilant and wary eye of a self-proclaimed victim,
An agent in broad daylight, lurking, critical and hideous,
But most of all, I will not miss your condescension,
Oh Mother,
I know I told you I'd never bow,
But just this once,
At your tombstone,
I will be free of it,
The best of the worst and the worst of the best,
I will mourn,
I'll take a bow for you,
Good riddance, I'll miss you,
Adieu, I love you,
And Mama?
Godspeed Mama, Godspeed.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
1651
A Word made Flesh is seldom
And tremblingly partook
Nor then perhaps reported
But have I not mistook
Each one of us has tasted
With ecstasies of stealth
The very food debated
To our specific strength—
A Word that breathes distinctly
Has not the power to die
Cohesive as the Spirit
It may expire if He—
“Made Flesh and dwelt among us”
Could condescension be
Like this consent of Language
This loved Philology.
4k
I can't come to a point of understanding
Doubters and their condescension.
Seeing the life beyond seeing,
It is Life Himself they're questioning.
When Life came unbounded by space and time,
When Life lived like sand but even more fine,
Came to live with us, came from no matter how far.
Came to us on Earth, Bright and Morning Star.
In tranquil birth, caused the wise to fall on their knees,
Come in, sinner, needing no tax or fees.
In peaceful death, caused all the Earth to be forever quaking,
A click shot to the head, Death is crippled, walks without stinging.
I can't seem to understand, how unclear it can be,
How can Doubters call illogical, loving unconditionally.
How can they call the breaking of chains, a fake institution of freedom.
When Life came, and saw through our shame and called us inheritors of His Kingdom.
In tranquil birth, in peaceful death,
Beyond the grave, a victor in defeat.
In tranquil birth, in peaceful death,
I still don't get your lack of belief.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:09 AM UTC
There is no shame, in moving back with your parents.
To them you still smell of diapers and the time you puked jelly beans all over the back of the car after you tilt-a-whirled your “I’m a big girl” attitude into giggles.
Around them you still clumsily tip over you own puberty when they ask you to clean your room.
You’re still in college. And that diploma on your wall is still less of an accomplishment, than when you suddenly discovered your thumbs.
So, how do you cope with the baby talk condescension scribbled over directions to empty a dishwasher properly?
1) Realize this is just temporary. You have till you’re at least 40 to fix this.
2) Clean your room of all the embarrassing childish evidence (i.e. N’Synch Posters, Pokemon Cards, Ect) . When CSI comes in they will just assume you were visiting.
3) Take long, long walks far, far away from your residence. Preferably the woods, so you may not run into any high school nemeses.
4) Pray you can get laid by someone, your age. Preferably someone you have not had any prepubescent encounters with already.
5) Eat all the free food you can.
With theses steps you can safely avoid pulling out your own fingernails with the self-loathing hiding under your bed.
Do not let it fill your Pog champion hands with delusions that you have failed to tie your own shoes, let alone pay your own taxes or get married.
Might as well give up those big girl pants and open lid cups and go back to Sesame Street and ******** in your own pants.
This…
Is only temporary.
You must say.
A temporary walk through the woods. Praying to lay down relax, and enjoy the air you are still eating.
This is only temporary.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
sweeps across the floor
like the hem of a rag
on a doll-faced *****
as the lights are dimmed
in this picket-fenced Attica.
To him, the raindrops taste like whiskey
so who's to blame him
for being a drunkard?
He will not take such condescension,
and so he shall pass it onto you
like a hot potato;
just say the third-degree burns
came from hugging the stove.
For you, life is not a Lifetime movie
looking at your bruises in the mirror
to a Celine Dion power ballad;
the days are a beach of intenstines
set alongside waves of toxic waste,
the moon now a mood ring
sitting atop the knuckles
of your vengeful king.
This decade of brutal purging,
atonement for sins not yet committed,
has felt as consuming
as his figure those Thursday nights
when he's stalking for his property,
and you're close-mouthed
under the bed,
looking through barely a slab
of this virtual reality,
at the iron-fisted giant
who would nurse your neuroses
if he'd stop bashing your face in.
Your expectations for the outcome
laced with Disney Princess satin
arrange themselves in a cross-legged noose
(the "O" stands for optimism),
for all this atonement
must be the beaten path
to the Garden of Eden.
You should just remember.
The men still pulled the lever,
licking the flames
as Joan of Arc sang her finale.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:55 AM UTC
Just to look
Never to reach
never as good as it could be
a failure to try
judge so harshly
discouraged to take a chance
Secrets are kept
wishes go unfulfilled
one suffers alone
fear is prison
nothingness is home
A feeling of insignificance
desire for love
hope for acceptance
calling for a voice
without condescension
I hope you understand
what I am missing
It is sad to think
of the friendships I gave up
because I didn't speak out
and I wonder
Would our lives be better
if I had tried
or would they be worse
The cultural paradigm has encouraged me to be shy
as some answers are found through ridicule
and there is much sensitivity that has guided me
yet I drive myself crazy wondering what if
I'm starting to see that truly I don't need to justify myself
I should embrace myself and others who do as well
if we can coexist together
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
Hello Stranger
You're so beautiful
I want to smile at you
just as a friendly human to another
But I lose my chance
as you look at me,
in condescension.
Then through me
as if I'm not there,
as if you don't care.
True, why should you
but it hurts me so
To feel rejected
dejected
I turn away
alone
towards my solitude
My sole companion in life
and fail to notice
that you're hurt too
The broken pieces of your soul
form the aura around you
and all you needed from this world
was just a smile.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
They shot a lot of black men,
this year.
Men with power and uniforms.
They were shot, too.
Schools were bombed
bullets scattered
& teachers, like me, had panic attacks practicing
drills, imagining their students’ bodies
riddled with shrapnel.
& we argued about gun control,
racism,
immigrants,
walls.
Injustice permeated the coffee I drank to calm myself.
Sorrow waltzed along the edges of cheerful conversations
in the grocery store.
White men and women took to platforms,
insisting their version of justice could correct
the suffering.
No one really believed them.
Presidency became a mockery
Division made more clear.
Over three hundred died in Baghdad,
no one flew their flag.
Maybe we were tired of avatars with flags of nations other than our own.
all suffering.
Perhaps so much compassion was overwhelming.
It could be that skin color meant more than I thought.
The skin color I wore,
Light, spattered with freckles,
made my compassion a condescension.
--how could I understand?
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 2:47 PM UTC
It feels more times than not
My character is misconceived
Wherein my affinity for emotion is
Either ill received, or begs condescension
Such vindictive decrees for
Souls just as flawed as me
The difference is
Mine are the only flaws that I can see.
Void of emotion?
I prefer to think that I can
Differentiate between
A fleeting feel
And what is real -
What of the lack of social devotion?
I am only at my best
Around those who create from the heart
I discard the rest, because
I am the company I keep,
And I've kept from the start.
Over the top flattery?
I beg to differ.
You mistake the way I speak and the things I do
For my romantic battery
The thought of which makes me quiver -
It says a little something about you, too.
You fail to see
That I can so naturally
Draw emotion from the smallest of things
Do you think it is through arrogance that I sing?
A highly internalized being, who only creates things
To feed an insatiable egotistical craving?
Clearly the life that you lead
Is just lacking fantasy, or a sense of meaning...
I have met people who are metaphorical gateways,
No, actual ley lines of human creativity.
I wonder if their work would
Make you question your brand
Of Humanity.
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 10:44 PM UTC
Easy guilt
overtakes me and
all of the faces
erase me and
I slip in a well
rapturously.
After a few brews
and a wet ******
my nerves shake loose
again.
I'm an adolescent
with contradicting condescension.
I love you
I look you in the eye to tell you
we look away
we don't say much.
Arguably agreeably
disagreeably so.
Every instant is a building.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 11:54 AM UTC
I am Temperance. I am Love.
I am the big, black, stomping boot
that crushes your glass heart
into one hundred thousand tiny broken pieces
beneath its sole.
This is me.
Your silver-winged Dovelet,
Your battle-wearied cooking pans,
Your thousand blood-kissed roses,
and diamonds cutting up your hand.
A butterfly flick-
of lashes on your cheek.
A kiss-
that is death.
That we may know despair.
That we may know anger.
Fearing our lusting, yet lusting still for fear.
The Puritanical Fury of being Unrequited--
Unnoticed--
Unloved.
Turned away. Told to accept our falls with grace and dignity.
I say **** it!
I say stand!
Raise your bolts of white-lightning fury and
Do a little heart stomping of your own!
Crush as you are crushed.
Devour those who would devour you!
We are one. Ill-matched, lace-broken, burned-fingers pair.
Upon each other we wreak and reap--
Only natural weapons allowed: Misery, Condescension, and
Ass-Holery.
No K-Bars, surgical tubing, duck-tape or butt-fucking false ***** available.
Do me right.
***** me right.
**** me over with that one hated word.
I have no temperance.
I will love.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 3:22 PM UTC
The person sat by me,
Is calling somebody,
He's saying 'I love you'
Is that so unusual,
To feel so alone in that moment?
The lovers at the front,
Have had more than enough
Of their parents' scrutiny
So they commit mutiny,
And consequences are left unspoken.
The cold condensation
Hides all condescension,
From every pedestrian
With bitter complexions
Who braved the cold and are frozen.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
That familiar feeling of depression,
led me on,
drooling
with my mouth open, nostrils wide
taking air in from hot, open windows;
driving at 20 mph in a 15 zone
carefully avoiding the road bumps.
The rear view mirror shows me,
a familiar stranger in dark, Ray-ban shades
She follows me,
a life of condescension
yet we love it
as long as we maintain the pool
built with utmost care.
Her hidden eyes give me comfort
I wish she was my wife
and the comfort in her hidden eyes
was comfort
in my cramped up car and my cramped up loft
from this cramped up life.
(There's a weird thing about unfamiliarity)
There are other things
like Ana's bookshelf in an upscale house in Buenos Aires,
those yellow tees specially designed to remember old pals,
or getting high in the Sierra Nevadas
with someone paid to be like you.
There's too much **** down that road,
the one I never took,
women became girls waiting in puffy waterproofs
coffee gets old
there's the cost of oil change every 300 miles
I don't drive that much anymore.
We have widows, young widows
sometimes with young babies, barely born
in fact, we were all young sometime
you, I, brides, the war on terror
that boy from Ethiopia,
things were simpler without automobiles
and rear view mirrors.
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 10:47 PM UTC
I imagine they will look at me with
Patronizing incredulity
When they ask “So, you love him?”
& I unblinkingly answer
“yes”
here they will chuckle with great
condescension and worry,
believing I don’t understand the meaning.
Perhaps, they are right.
The trouble is:
I don’t like him.
It’s not merely that.
I am somewhere between
I-am-mildly-interested
I-like-him
& I-am-going-to-marry-him.
Which, in the smallest of my mother tongue, leaves me
With love.
I love him, in my way.
In the way I—with twenty years behind me—believe is love.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 3:06 AM UTC
too much selfish
too much altruism
too much hate
too much love
too much hope
too much disillusionment
too many expectations
too much erudition
too much ignorance
too little respect
too little condescension
too much selfish
leads to indifference
too much altruism
leads to cancellation of himself
too much hate
leads to war
too much love
leads to obsession
too much hope
leads to utopia
too much disillusionment
leads to resignation
too many expectations
lead to frustration
too much erudition
leads to the illusion of omnipotence
too much ignorance
leads to unconsciousness
too little respect
leads to arrogance
too little compliance
leads to loneliness
what is the right way?
an excessive too much?
an apathetic enough?
maybe
diversities
of our lives
of our lies
of our perceptions of truth
of our perceptions of justice
maybe
our too much
or too little
or enough
are the aequilibrium
of our world?
maybe
the anachronistic belief
of the different awareness
perceived as a resource
not as the tendency
of standardize everything
in a fake flat same
would finally
lead
to peace
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 5:03 AM UTC
So much condescension filling up their eyes
Quick! Look away before she sees
Accidental moments quickly ruin lives
Block her out, shun the diseased
We are outcasts amongst the proud
Their naïve minds too simple to see
The physical too insufficient to **** their doubt
Watch her fall and melt to her knees
She is damaged, feed her to the beast!
The blood hungry demon desires his next meal
Burn her! Cut her! Give our god his feast!
She’s unique and strong so, for this, ideal
Rubies rain to a flesh filled ground
Feeding on her body tearing it to shreds
We sigh in relief as we hear her screaming sounds
No more conviction of the thing that we most dread
A hidden truth that resounds in our head
A hatred for her strength that has to go unsaid
An idea reflected in the life that she has led
That the strength to live free, sadly, in us, is dead
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 3:45 PM UTC
You can keep your basket of good intentions.
I say this without condescension.
It's just that I've got a small place;
I really can't spare the space.
Plus the basket seems rather flimsy
As if put together on a whimsy.
Now if you happen to have a sturdy crate of action,
I think I would be able to make an exception.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
but
i don't want your advice about hanging in there
i don't want to hear about how i should wait for the rest of my life to begin
i don't want to hear about what should give me light
i don't want to hear about the struggles of valuable lessons or the triumph of hope
i don't want empty promises or vacant encouragements
i don't want your moral high horse or veiled condescension
i want to hear your honest opinions
i want to hear your soul cry out in protest
about how you're drowning your sorrows
about how your brain feels like a worn out sponge
and your heart an old wrung rag
i want to hear how you're close to giving up
i want to hear how you're burning out
i want to hear how coffee makes you shake
i want to hear how you need pills to sleep
i want to hear how the thoughts of your future scare you more than your past ever did
i want to hear all your fears.
i want to know that in all of mine,
i'm not alone.
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
i'm tired of being everyone's punching bag
learning to defend against the left jab
can almost predict the back stab
my tyrant boss so incompetent
unable to lead
peers who feel the need
to boast of themselves
voracious egos to feed
as i receive a mere stipend
for my efforts sweat and bleed
i'm bailing from this race
far from your lecherous reach
i stashed away a nest egg
built a fishing hut on the beach
there with my marked comrades remain
away from your weakness and condescension
we will all have our day
when you are called to account for
your sins
beyond mention
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
I don’t mean this
I take it back so don’t get too
excited, but
You’re my broken time machine promise—
my not mine—
the arch of your feet and that look you shot when i said that
first nice thing I ever said and it made me uncomfortable
Your
demeanor is the taste of ginger
and your condescension is just as spicy and you’re
the lights on the highway at night that always calmed me but never had a name before I could recognize your handwriting,
and I cried in the kitchen with the lights off over nothing,
and thought about how you’d think it was funny.
we Ten Dansen yes
we hellbound dyslexic aspiration
we big ideas we no execute
we who we wanna be
we do what who we think we wanna be do
we the ****** poem I laughed at not
cuz it was stupid
but cuz it was true and this is stupid
You’re a beer on the pavement and
drunks run in the family
You’re a korean bbq in the city at midnight.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:39 AM UTC
Oh,
****
you.
I don't give a ****
about what's wrong
or
what's right
what you think about me,
or my acts,
or my
kind.
oh,
**** you.
with your giggling
and
your condescension
I really don't give a ****
but that's a lie,
because
I wrote this poem
didn't I?
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 10:04 AM UTC