"criticized" poems
A rose is a rose,
No matter where it grows.
Some saw thorns,
Beauty some chose.
Criticized by some,
Valued by loads;
People's opinions,
You can't change them by force.
Perfection is desired,
Even if it's freestyle prose!
Our lives might be cumbersome,
Let's accept the challenges they pose;
There's a bit of stardust in us all,
No matter hellish situations might come how close,
because, a rose is a rose.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
Before you criticize me too soon, I think you should spare some seconds and answer a simple question to yourself...
If Shahjahan loved Mumtaz Mahal so much, why he had a harem of wives to use at his own pleasure?
While I agree that the Taj Mahal is arguably the most extraordinarily beautiful monument in the world, I don't agree upon the fact that it was built as a tomb of love. It is just a symbol of madness if you asked me. An emperor's insecure feeling to get his name registered in the history books. While it may be one of the most beautiful architectural monument, it was built by over 20,000 architects, craftsmen, masons and engineers who took over 16 years to build the magnificent building.
He got this apparently high & prestigious monument of love built but everything that the Emperor did was not pleasant at all.
° The lavishly living Mughal Emperor spent all his - his subjects' money into building this monument of love instead of keeping his subjects well-fed.
° Mumtaz Mahal might have been the luckiest woman to have died and got such a marvelous building built as her mausoleum but she died giving birth to her & Shahjahan's 17th offspring and then Shahjahan who had uncountable other wives was inspired by her demise apparently to undertake what is termed as the biggest project in history build the costliest monument proclaiming his rule.
° The arrogant - falsely proud lover - Mughal emperor didn't know that what he thought to be looked at as the greatest symbol of love will be criticized by some poet in his own land nearly 375 years later. The insane Mughal Emperor got all the builders of the Taj Mahal's fingers cut-off of so that there could be no other Taj Mahal.
But Aurangzeb, his & Mumtaz Mahal's son overthrew his power when Shahjahan got older and locked him up in a jail at the other end of Yamuna river where the emperor then died a sad old lovelorn bedlamite person in prison. Aurangzeb was the exact opposite of his dad, he showed religious intolerance and his habits drove the empire towards its doom after his death.
But let me think this way; when I look at any picture of the Taj Mahal, what I get the first thing in mind is this: Such a CRAZY emperor who got such a beautiful monument of Egotism built!
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
Could he not see myself sinking into despair after ever word he spoke
Could he not see the tears streaming down my face as I began to choke
He criticized and dehumanized me
His loose lips were never sweet
Why couldn't it be...
My face got pale and hands got weak
I could feel my body dropping to me knees
And as he continued to reveal his wicked hate
I feel my soul beginning to deteriorate...
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
Millennials at Work and War
Scorn not the snowflake who stands watch for us
Now thrown into the existential struggle
Surrendering their youth and taking up life
They muster in the fields and factories
And in their elders’ undeclared, shadowy wars
Uniformed in an unappreciated sense
Of duty and dignity while scorned by those
Who take their ease upon the couches of sloth
And fling cheap mockery at millennials
Who take up tools and work and love of life
Sometimes to die in deserts still unmapped
While generals dismiss their casualties as light
Despised as snowflakes by keyboard commandos
Who never got closer to any war
Than a John Wayne ketchup-bloody movie.
Some work long double shifts through university
In a sawmill, shop, or fast foodery
Only to be dismissed as slacker layabouts,
But expected to trust those who condemn them
For not being the greatest generation
As defined by those who never served at all
And while being criticized they will grab
A quick cup of coffee for the night shift
Staffing the hospitals and police patrols
That keep their sneering critics alive and safe
They drive the trucks, they man the ships, they work
They drill for oil, these useless millennials
While idlers lounge long in the coffee shops
And YooToob computered jokes about them
Millennials have no time for coloring books
Or comfort animals or revolution
For they are weary with study and work
The best of them make no demands, but, sure
A little respect, hard-earned, would be nice
If only the scripted singer-songwriters
Would pack up the tired old stereotypes
And see millennials as they truly are
But darkness falls – they must go back to work
On the eleven-seven, the graveyard shift
They do not burn draft cards or Medicare cards
Instead through work they illuminate this world
And build it up with continued sacrifice
Scorn not the snowflake who stands watch for us
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
I’m not a picture of perfection,
But I am the Mona Lisa of imperfection,
This distorted picture which you view,
This picture which you judge,
Which you question,
Is my only reality,
A picture hanging in a museum wall,
Being watched, examined, analysed, criticized,
I am that picture,
The one you so often seldom walk pass,
The one which may catch your eye,
The picture that when you stop to stare at,
Haunts you,
The glazed complexion over the eyes,
The somewhat distant smile,
And the disheavled hair,
It’s not a picture of perfection,
But it’s the Mona Lisa of imperfection,
It’s a representation of all those beings walking this earth trying to hide their flaws,
They are not Mona Lisa’s,
They hang on the wall of museums,
Pretending that no one sees through them,
Little do they know, they are barely paintings but pieces of glass,
So transparent and fragile,
That any moment now, when that passing strange stops,
Stares,
And opens there mouth,
That glass, will shatter into tiny little brush strokes,
They will float away into the air,
Leaving nothing but a distorted image of perfection,
Whilst I’ll hang in my glory of imperfection
May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 4:23 PM UTC
The shoes were red,
and stood at 7 inches high,
perfect to look sophisticated,
and to feel like she was touching the sky.
Everyone criticized her,
because they thought she wore them to get attention,
and co-workers would confront her,
to give her a ***** mention.
Only the people don't understand,
because she feels self conscious of her height,
and the heels are the only opportunity,
to make her feel alright.
. . .
The shoes were brown,
covered with mud and dirt,
shoe laces tangled in a mess,
and didn't have any way to avert.
People overlooked him,
when he wanted something,
because they thought he didn't care,
but who are they to be judging!
The truth is,
in fact he did care,
but didn't have enough money,
to buy nice shoes to wear.
. . .
The shoes were neon,
like the color of the sun,
they had bright shoes laces,
that he wears when he runs.
People thought they were ugly,
because they were off brand,
and they lacked the character,
that all the cool shoes had.
But really he was trying,
to just fit in,
but they would reject him,
every time he begins.
. . .
Be kind,
for everyone is fighting a conflict,
that you know nothing about,
so don't judge nor depict.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
your curves are **** beautiful
your legs that show tiger marks
your thighs that were created by streaks of waves
the arms and calves build with love
they are criticized
judged by the eye of everyone
hello? is this fat?
*** that’s gross
they say
avoiding contact with
the realistic things
words do cut deeper than knives
and the thoughts were too cruel running
in my veins me being fed
so i changed
ate a little
starved myself
commitment to such
self abuse
being embarrassed of
how the curves of my body shapes me
why oh why?
who are you now
now i’ve got
bruises forming everywhere
on my body
scarring my pale tan skin
or should i describe it
as ash gray dead?
never would’ve thought that every words
that build up in my mind
became so life threatening
how they slay my emotions
and torture me
with pressure
sorry dear self for making you suffer
trying to fit in the wrong crowd
taking all these diets and pills
to make myself gorgeous
but in the end
the smile begun to fade
dark circles started to show up
and my perfect days were daunted
by the sickness of me,
anorexia.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 10:28 AM UTC
Girls my height are supposed to be petite
Skinny and proportional
When I would read seventeen magazine and they would show the best outfits for your body type
Mine was never on there
Not big enough to be curvy
Curvy girls in magazines were curvy all over
and average height
The petite girl wasn't supposed to have curves at all
The petite girl was thin
The petite girl could wear anything
Why can't short girls have *******
Because when we do, we're a fetish
And for some reason, when you fit a fetish people assume you're there for them.
"I like short girls because you can pick them up when you ****
"Short girls don't have to get on their knees."
"Can you **** my **** standing up?"
"A C cup on a short girl is like a DD on a normal girl.”
“I like ******* short girls because I can really take control.”
My mom always criticized me for wanting to dress slutty
And it broke my heart because I never wanted to look slutty
I just wanted to wear what my skinny friends could wear
*And sometimes it's hard when you can't find high waisted shorts that cover your *** all the time, even right after you stand up from sitting in the car for 30 minutes and they rode up a little, but a little on you is a lot because you don't have a flat *** like all of your friends do, but you can't go a size up because then they're too big and they still don't give you the coverage that at first your mom wanted for you but that you now want yourself because you can feel the heat of people staring because girls like you shouldn't wear those kinds of shorts, and at parties they think it's okay to touch if it's not covered, and you've been in this H&M for 3 hours and nothing fits you like it does that tall, pretty girl with the A cups in the fitting room next to yours,*
But how could my mom know that
At 5 ft 4, she weighed 98 lbs on her wedding day
You can wear anything when you look like that
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
How long my days, my nights listening to swagger jaggier
Since the seagulls, dance broke the sand-bags
Last year have been widely criticized as the torture year
How long my days, my nights listening to swagger jaggier
Last year hurt more than ever
the attitude of the unions lecture
How long my days, my night listening to swagger jaggier
Since the seagulls, drove the dagger deeper.
Author note...
sometimes in life we just have to take the good with the bad
remembering the storm of 2012..
I was aiming for: The Triolet Form of poetry
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
I don’t mind being criticized
If I’m wrong, tell me so
Let me know, so
I can go about doing right
And I just might find the solution
The retribution
The redistribution of answers
Being held from us
Preventing us from knowing
What knowledge is growing somewhere else in life
That’s what they say
But that’s what they all say
Convey threats to war
Scare us because they know we’re not sure
Send warnings then bombings exploding
everything, incessant destruction
so maybe it doesn't matter
if I'm right or wrong, I'm being criticized
as long as I can adapt to thinking
and can think about adapting
I just want to do what's right
so I write to figure it out
But I doubt what I see,
do my hand deceive me when
my words show that everything is wrong?
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
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This poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "किनारों का निश्छल प्रेम " published in anhadkriti (Dec. 2017) Can be read through the link ==>> https://bit.ly/2Ex69ip
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Only water streams of the river
meets in the Ocean
The banks of the river
never meets with each other
they always stand face to face
but do not come near
If one comes near sometimes
The other moves far and away
To maintain the Distance
It's not so, that they
do not want to meet
But if they will meet
The river will not stay
That too will become a pond
Its water will also rot
Its continuous flow will stop
To maintain the existence
Of the free flowing river
For welfare of living beings
For quenching their thirst
Its very very important
the banks should never meet
The truth is that they are one
even if they are not able to meet
What is life? Life is love
What is love, it's Sacrifice
Without sacrifice, love is lifeless
The banks have completely understood
the essence and decided their destiny
that they shall never ever meet
For the welfare of the world
Its essential, important and mandatory
Banks are disciplined
By their own self-discipline
If the river also follows discipline
Inspired by the discipline of banks
Its beauty gradually increases
Peoples bow and pray to the river
With great respect and devotion
But whenever water streams of river
Encroaches the boundary of the banks
they are criticized and reprimanded
As it betrays the love
betrays the sacrifice
betrays the benevolence of the banks
by completely forgetting and
tarnishing the efforts of banks
And Take away with them
Hundreds of homes
And finally earn disrespect
Well, the existence of the edges
is also because of the water stream
If the edges meet with each other
They will lose their own identity
So, this subtle concept needs to be
Understood clearly and deeply
'Devotion persists only uptill the
desires remain un-fulfilled'
If one is able to see the God
and gets his desire fulfilled, then
the devotee ceases to be a devotee
his devotion disappears immediately
and he often gets angry with God
So the Banks of river
always pray to god
'Our love should remain forever
But like parallel lines
We should never meet each other
Because of us the river must exist
Water streams must stay forever
And remain as a medium
for communicating our love
towards each other'
Such guileless love of the banks
Where else on earth can be seen?
God also salutes their true love
I wish their love should remain alive
It's not always like -
that the shores never meet
Yes, two banks of same river
Do not meet with each other
But a bank of a river
Sometimes manages to meet
with the bank of another river
Because in such case there is
absolutely no fear of
the water streams getting stagnant
The water stream of two rivers
joins with each other
and is called 'confluence'
Its importance increases
Its respect also increases
If one bank of first river meets
another bank of second river
then the second bank of the first river
never minds at all
and never ever gets sad
Its love remains constant as it was
unconditional and unbiased
Moment moment every moment
Second second every second
Let's bow before such
True and unconditional love
Hundred and Thousand Times
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 1:50 AM UTC
“You’re going to do it my way.”
And that is what’s wrong with the entire education system in the United States.
From a very early age, we’re taught that there’s only one way to do things. Only one way to learn to read, to write, to ride a bike. Everything must be done at a certain age. Not earlier, not later. And it all must be done one way.
I remember when I was taught how to write, that was probably the worst year of my life. There are plenty of adults I know now that can’t write half as well as I did then. But my teacher criticized and marked me down for each little mistake, and by the end of the year, when report cards came out, I got a check mark for not being as neat and beautiful as she thought I should be. But who is to tell an eight-year old that her hand writing is bad. That the loops at the ends of her a’s are wrong, after all she’s just being creative.
Every year the teachers give the whole “poetry is about being creative and expressing how you feel” speech.
Well do you want to know how I really feel. I feel like that unit is a load of crap. Because right after they tell you all about that, they give you directions on how you have to write a poem, counting out each individual syllable and making them rhyme. But I want things not to rhyme, I want to make someone cry by rhyming sunshine with raincloud and summer with winter and smile with tear. I want each stanza, wait, why should I even use stanzas if I don’t need them? I can have a million lines if I wanted because that’s what poetry is.
And art doesn’t have to be in the lines of the paper. Art isn’t meant to be taught, it’s meant to be experienced, learned, felt, made. Just because they colors don’t seem to “complement” or “represent” or “contrastment”. I’ll distemper you, too bad I don’t know what that means because I didn’t pay attention in your class.
And they teach you to do everything in your head, so as not to speak your mind, so when you get older you can keep opinions to yourself and fall below a power that is supposed to be above you.
There’s a problem with education. It’s that teachers have been taught the same thing they teach us without trying to change a thing.
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 9:02 PM UTC
I promised you I'd take you away
From here one day
And that's a promise I intend to keep.
If given the chance,
I would take you with me on my every daily endeavor
And I would kiss you with every passing second
To make up for all the ones you deserved
But didn't receive
When I was just a little girl
And the world was turning it's back on you
So harshly.
And I would be criticized
For my loving you;
Too wide of an age gap,
To vast of a difference
But I am closer to you
That I have ever been
With anyone else.
I will take you to the beaches of California
I have never seen
And I will make love to you
In the crisp Colorado air,
So long as you're willing to run with me.
We can go to New York
And skip rocks in the pond
In Central Park where Holden Caulfield
Almost drowned himself because he was drunk,
But not quite as drunk as I perpetually am
On your excellence.
Maybe we could go to the Natural History Museum
And we could look at the really cool Indian statues
That emulate my love for you
By never changing.
Wherever it is you want me to go
I will follow you with no questions asked
So long as when I'm finally able to save you
From this wretched place,
You will take my hand and save yourself
With me.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
Nobody ever taught me how to love myself.
I was never told to love the way my hair falls into light curls,
or the healing scars on my wrists, hips, and mind.
I was never told to love my stomach, my eyes, or my lips.
I was criticized all my life for the size and shape of my body.
Ever since I can remember I was told not to like myself,
to think of myself as nothing,
to always put others first.
I was never the number one priority and I never wanted to trust.
Even at home, I was told by the ones I loved the most that I was not good enough.
This is where the question originated: do the ones I love actually love me?
Maybe it was just an illusion in my mind,
that maybe they really don't.
I pictured my relationships with my family members as I thought they should be.
I thought that because they were family they would automatically
say "I love you",
support me through it all,
respect me,
keep me safe.
But it's not like that.
It took me quite some time to realize that just because you are related by blood,
all of these aren't automatically there.
It took me quite some time to realize that maybe they don't love me,
that if these things are lacking... it is not love.
It took me quite some time to realize that I was wanting the love and attention that all desire,
yet not all receive.
I was taught from a young age not to love myself,
which led to my thought that I was not loved as I grew older.
Maybe if I was taught to love myself then I wouldn't be the wreck I am now.
Maybe I would have more self-respect and wouldn't destroy not only my own body,
but my mind.
Maybe I would have avoided those toxic relationships.
Maybe my first love wouldn't have been able to take advantage of me,
and neither would have the other four boys.
Maybe I wouldn't have ended up in that hospital,
more than once.
Maybe if things were different in the beginning,
I wouldn't be so damaged now.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
To love and love again,
with the eyes watching,
staring
Childhood secrets and imaginary pleasures
criticized for naivety by those
who have displaced the memories of a
long forgotten past
Who's insecurities double by the cynical
jealousy built up after
innocence has been torn to shreds
Seductive and approachable
this tree,
this swing
We all believe,
as children,
in that tire swings indestructibility
But
as it ages
and the rope withers from the weight
and frays like a spiders gossamer web
we witness the growth of a sad time
One slow piece at a time unravel
from lie after lie
Love lost several times
Everything holding the rope together
realizing that the end end is near
The tire snaps off and lays
in rest
among the dead and dying foliage
Abandoned,
years pass
and that old tire becomes caked
in dust and mud and
forgotten times
But
that rope still hangs there
swaying with the shifting moments of life
Waiting
waiting to be useful once again
There is only one use left for a lone rope
hanging from an old
and lonely
tree
A rope that offered hope and freedom
can do that one last time
A gift that can once again
release us from the pain
and the suffering
this world throws at us
That old tire swing rope
looped
circled
knotted
is now pure freedom
Standing on that old ***** tire
reaching
for that newly formed circle
Fit it
tighten it
release
and jump
Freedom
once again
because of that old tire swing noose
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 2:22 PM UTC
i am the melting sun beams dripping from the children's running sneaker...creeping slow into the ocean of nose hairs sparkling with iodine and rosemary...father farther to the cosmic goop of motherhood and magic mounds of twirling gases...rancid beef so evergreen as if the princess is licking loudly on the frogs back...green of colour my third eye melts her fantasy into rainbows of toxic firearms...leaking valuable oil all over her wedding dress...come into the third eye and hammer away the truths of 1000 years...to fowrad this message is to embrace all that is the third eye...magic and numbers spiral towards the center edge of my reason...pure and criticized like goblins with tiny feet...reach up into your third eye and pull yourself into it with all your power and all your might....stay with it for just one night and reach for the spare tires in the third eyes trunk...don't forget to fill it with melting bubbles of fantastic hot sweet golden ratios where infinity smell like dust bunnies and dust bunnies smell like crystal salts and volcanic ash...spew forth third eye and share the vision of ecstasy and freedom...never cover the third eye with hate and regret only wash it with happiness and fullness...let the third eye rule your heart and towers will melt into concrete and paper will fill the sky...only the can the third eye truly be the way to see your path....spiral softly third eye and forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and forever see with the third eye....
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 8:01 AM UTC
I'm at my wit's end.
Fed up, burned out,
sick and tired.
Racing through alcohol fueled depression
because I'm not free, to be me.
Judged, criticized, crucified
held to the expectations
of other people's self-serving morality.
I'm a cog in a machine,
rolled under the wheels,
of a small business owner's
capitalist pipe dream.
I'm a pawn in a game
of war of money of politics.
Mislead, misdirected.
mission critical prime directive.
It's a story as old as "civilization"
all of this dehumanization.
Turning me into something
that serves you better.
I'm warning people
to stay away from me
because I see through their ****
and its ******** on ******** on ******** on ********
I'm warning people
I can't take much more
because every human being
is an ******* and a *****
Because we put these labels
on being truthful and free.
Because someone put a label on you
and now you put one on me.
Because someone taught you
its okay, to be
ignorant and mean.
And now I, have become
indignant and belligerent
which is just one step away
from being just like you.
But how do I move away?
Do I pack up the truck
and literally move away?
to where?
Are people somehow better somewhere?
Or do I just get as far away
as I can from them, from you?
Living off the grid
makes it hard to get laid.
Living off the land
makes it hard to get paid.
And you've been raised
to be a slave,
a wage parasite
on a dying host.
You want more than to survive.
You want to thrive.
You want to live forever
but will die of cancer or suicide.
The baby jesus inside me
has its face smashed into a tv screen.
The buddha inside me
is tired of taking the blame.
If every step kills a bug
and every bite kills a plant
and every breath kills a microbe
and every death of a dictator kills a universe of bacteria
then the only right action is inaction
and every action is inherently wrong.
Morality is a psychosomatic symptom
and our system is inherently flawed.
I try to escape and it seems like there's no way.
There's no light at the end of the tunnel,
and no traction on the corpses of the fallen.
There's a dream of hermitage, and the sadness that follows.
There is sadness in every corner bar and every heartbeat.
Sadness in every wilted limb and worried brow.
Sadness in every frustrated plea for release.
Sadness in the teardrops of the creation.
Sadness tumbling down like shards of glass
from the millions of dreams
broken by the machine.
Constant grinding.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
As I watch the people scurry around me
Like ants in a maze
Living the lives they believe are their own,
I wonder if they can even fathom
All the lies and secrets that surround them?
Our world has turned into a place
That feeds on lies
And treats honesty like a crime,
A crime deserving of immense punishment.
Lies end in reward.
Honesty in scorn.
I loathe the liars,
For they are cowards.
While honesty may hurt now,
A lie will grow and spread like a wildfire,
Like a disease,
Lethal to all those who come in contact with it.
I am not immune to this disease.
On the contrary,
I am a carrier of it.
I’ve always been told
My honesty and abruptness get me into trouble,
But I would rather be openly criticized
To my face for my honesty
Then have people feed and thrive on my lies.
They say “revenge is a dish best served cold.”
Lucky for me, my emotions can never just go into hiding.
They are always front and center
Just waiting to be poked and prodded,
A fire ready to ignite and consume.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 3:32 AM UTC
I live in a place …
Where intelligence
Is dissed
And ignorance
Is bliss
Where refusing
To be forced into a box
Is taking a questionable risk
And if you
Step out of place
All eyes will shift
Where accepting the life
You’ve been assigned
Is just a formality
And you’re constantly being
Criticized for your individuality
I live in a place …
Where you have to
Play your role
The stage is set
So forget about
Your own goals
Do what you’ve been told
And you just might make it
But until you do
You’ll have to fake it
So secretly read up
Ingest all you can
The only way to
Escape ignorance
Is to devise an
Intelligent plan
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
This girl that I am seeing.
This perfect woman.
Makes me feel so alive.
The rush of every encounter
makes me so starstruck.
It's a wonder
how she loves
a person like me.
She holds me like my mother never did.
She kisses me like
I imagine the angels would.
Her love
always has me begging for more.
And the goodness of her heart
compares her to a goddess.
Valentines day is tomorrow.
She is obviously the one
I really care about her.
Oh please tell me, can't you tell?
The things I could say,
the way I could tell her.
The many ways I want to tell her.
The things I can't tell her.
She is everything.
When I feel like nothing.
She proves that I am something.
Because with every emotion
I feel like I am flying.
She knows me for me.
Loves me for me.
She could choose anyone
but yet she holds my hand.
What did I do
to have her by my side.
Luck, no.
Just love, pure love.
The oceans
reflect in her eyes.
And when she cries,
the ocean rushes out.
Her skin
beautiful and clean.
Her lips hold the keys tho the unknown.
She blushes a lot.
But it's perfect to me.
She's so insecure,
just why?
She is everything.
I would give my life for her.
Cut open my wrist and give her every last drop.
She is so perfect,
yet she is criticized so often.
She is called fat
she is called ugly
annoying
but I have never seen any of that.
To me,
she is her
and that is so much to say.
I love her.
Sometimes,
the only thing to say
Thank you
for loving
me
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 12:21 PM UTC
Stay you
Stay true
Change not
Others has been in your shoes and got talked about and criticized too!
Be different.
Why be the same?
Even twins hates dressing the same way.
Others has faced comments for being different
Critiqued for drawing attention by those seeking control.
Muhammad Ali, totally tested authority of rules.
Got talked about by the same kinds crying about your sportsmanships of being different.
Stay being Cam.
When others cries about your ways.
Goe Rhett Butler and say, you don't give a ****
James Harris, Warren Moon and Jefferson Street Joe Gilliam all went before you.
And was questioned about being a quarterback too!
Notice if let to some you be playing a different position.
Doug Williams, changed all that when he became the first Superbowl winning quarterback.
Sure you could cave in and pretend the act of a Russel Wilson simply to be liked.
But being Cam is what you most in life should always be like?
Cause the press media doesn't pay your bills at night.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 12:41 PM UTC
I could never love myself through the male gaze,
every part of me dissected into something that is nothing
objectified and dismembered into significantly insignificant categories
criticized, and ostracized from humanly functions
only to be put on display
as a mannequin.
Jul 9, 2022
Jul 9, 2022 at 2:21 AM UTC
End is the beginning of another doom,
since evils are not born from wombs.
A son he is to a mother,
and so neglected are the symptoms.
Good might be his foundation,
but fate destroys it all.
Struggle is pronounced,
life on fire.
endurance has limits,
the strongest heart dies,
an obstinate, wicked mind arises from ashes.
Then are done the follies, so noticeable,
he is criticized, is made the Villain.
Then the head is on sale,
with biddings so high.
The team that preys on him,
is awarded public acclaim.
Then is he known in history,
God of turmoil.
Stories are made with him as a villain,
and little children taught the false old rhyme,
bad times may break,
but real good stands undestroyed.
Who is the real Villain is to be judged,
As oldest rocks not always yield diamonds.
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
One thing we know about Trump is that
Whenever he criticizes someone,
It's often for something that he himself
Does or previously has done.
When he campaigned, he criticized
Obama for golfing. Such a crime!
Now that he's the president,
Trump is golfing all the time!
He blasted Obama for lack of transparency
And accused him of being feckless.
Trump's own transparency comes
To light only because he's so reckless.
Trump says the media should
Be less hostile and model civility.
Then he attacks the press and others
And carries it out with utmost hostility.
Our national security:
An issue to Trump, yet now it's known
How much the hypocritical man
Loves to use his unsecured phone.
Hillary's emails were often a target
Before and even since the election.
Trump's fake concern and constant
Complaints: examples of his projection.
Emails are now in the news again.
This time daughter Ivanka is using
Her private email account for government
Business! Isn't that amusing?
Oh, you hypocrites! You act as though
For you the rules do not apply.
But if there's any justice at all,
You'll get yours by and by.
-by Bob B (11-20-18)
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC