"critiqued" poems
Abstract:
And (why?) thus, is all I know so far.
the *question
which is never easy to ask
has an *answer which
is never easy to swallow
between introduction and conclusion
lies a happy marriage
of one jolly void and one fuzzy wish list
via (this) credibility and (that) validity
of all the methods jammed in a
rainbow of paradigms and databases
a qualitative doubt
vs a quantitative solution
critiqued to death
is not always a one way topic
but the only way forward
(to prove!)
I can smile but
I am not allowed to fear
nor like,
nor hate,
nor presume,
nor love my finding
although I desperately cling to
a forbidden bias
(reference this!)
passion is a dangerous domain
(I googled it)
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 2:15 PM UTC
The acoustic guitar plays softly, in the background of a critiqued ball room as he made his entrance. The attention of the audience fell upon him; As he walked readily towards the dance floor, The melody of the flute and the rhythm of the bass guitar, Dramatized his beauty. The spectators in fear, but his passion so real, As I stared into his eyes, that made beauty felt unreal everything else that surrounded me disappeared. He focused his eyes on the dance floor they began to whisper; Who will he choose? Who has to leave now? He flashed his eyes upon the viewers that were once in shock, now in terror, but their ****** expression in awe. The apothegm states that he continually seeks for the one that would heal his disease but bound to the power of the earth’s forces, his determined, stunning eyes will never be able to reveal, the secret one that can heal. The bass drums play wildly as he shows the crowd his fury. The once stunned viewers now begin to panic, but I draw myself closer. Before I could reach him someone else got in the way. “I would like to die” was the words I know her to repeatedly say. He gently pushed himself away in anger. He looked around the ball room, and observed the reaction of the audience to his response. They’re now in astonishment. He then stopped and his focal point was clear. The piano and the cello played softly to become one with his voice. He said to me “let us dance.” I’m frightened, the majority of the onlookers left in a daze. My vision weakened before our dance began. He smiled, and as he looked upon my face all the instruments faded away. He said to me is this your last dance? Will you leave us tonight? I’m the kiss of death will you close your eyes forever or will you leave me in delight?”
Nov 19, 2009
Nov 19, 2009 at 9:39 AM UTC
He drew a figure eight on my spine, absentmindedly,
and traced the nape of my neck with his fingertip when he said,
“You are beautiful to me.”
But the ellipsis in the silence spoke louder than he did, and the look in his eye was not born because I was lovely;
It was not because he loved me.
A thing too small for love-
But far too large to be lust;
Simple. Ugly.
He looked at me like he was hungry.
So sweetly he critiqued each curve, every line, blurring my edges with the images of every bent perception pulled from the mire of his mind;
and I
could not
satisfy
Pretty innocence diminished in the grip of his vice,
Pressed tight against my body, despised in dark eyes.
I am not the inhuman creatures you contrived in the middle of the night.
I am not the feminine expression of your ********* pride.
What a wicked crime,
to take a woman’s body and leave the woman behind.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
I want you…
I want you instinctually and primitively.
Spiritually and physically.
I want to give you portions of me that I’ve never shown anybody; that will become distinctively yours - recognizable only to you and you alone.
I want to submerge you in a realm of ******** gentleness that perpetuates an aggressive kindness, that stimulates, and soothes every aching, yearning, desire that flows through your body.
Continuously…
I’m telling you what you already knew, that I will always be there for you, and you will never again feel alone or abandoned.
I want to give you complete and total satisfaction.
I want you and every little idiosyncrasy that makes you unique, that others have critiqued, because they didn’t understand.
I want to show you that I can…
I want to dwell in the depths of your being. I want to unravel your complexity.
I want to give you vibrations in the form of a currant that arouses sensationally, at a frequency that makes you hum melodies of ecstasy uncontrollably as you call out for me.
I want to initiate an explosion of soft convulsions from the warmth of my mouth penetrating every inch of your body rhythmically.
I want the waters from the spring of your masculinity to drown me, and then I want you to save me.
I want to embrace you each night and wrap you in between soft warm thighs, and welcoming arms under moonlight, until your torso is wet, drenched with sweat, until each kiss drips from the tip of your lips, and I caress your back with my fingertips.
I want to make love to you the way an angel would if she could.
I want to show you heaven and ethereal visions without limita-tions or specifications.
I want to give you happiness and pleasure unparallel, unlike any-thing either of us has ever felt, seen, or could create in our dreams.
I want to protect you from harm beneath my wings. I want you to believe in me…
I want you to come into my life.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 7:21 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
***perhaps if you are
one of the few
multiyear variates,
still here, still seeking
solutions
to the
equations of
human formulation,
one of the veterans of the
early word wars,
when the line between fellow poet
and human being was full of
invitational openings,
tween those dots and dashes,
we all eagerly entered those places,
crossing over into
those human openings,
making poets into friends***^
yes,
we were social for the humanity
patented in the very word
social
we encouraged,
we critiqued wearing a flag
made from the fine fabric of fellowship,
crossing global borders and time zones,
even planets,
with only a hand-made
poetry passport
constructed from the
tissues of our hearts
each one of us,
A Little Prince,
lost
from other worlds,
but all
found
ourselves together in a
hospitable desert
so strange,
we found companionship,
genuine in ways that
make me weep when I recall it,
so many aviators,
flying low, neath the radar screen,
speaking one language of a thousand dialects
the networking was spontaneous,
friendships formulated,
real hugs exchanged,
no ulterior purpose, no quantity of glory sought,
no favors traded,
there were friends,
not followers,
just sharers
we valued the first amendment of our lives,
the right to speak freely in poetry
***I wish you had been there,
here,
back then***
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
I don't remember the first song ever made
I was not there to taste the sweet marmalade
dripping to this earth like rain in September
when it rained out from the afterbirth of
The first clever musical endeavor.
It was not i.
I was not the first to sit back
And rap my knuckles
Or tap my feet to the sweet rhythm
Of chirping cricket orchestrals
All written on the spot and never
Even thought about again. Like secrets
Carried to the grave of every short lived section
Of six legged minstrels.
It wasn't you either.
Just like you weren't the first to be inspired
By a cone spiders spiraling spire
Of a trap set for all music makers.
I was not the first to hear the melody
But if I could've been,
I probably wouldn't have taken it to memory
Or woken from my revelries
Because not everything new to me
Is the most beautiful flower you'd ever see.
But I could never rouse a lie like one that states
I wouldn't hum it off handedly later when
The sun went to wake the other side of the world.
And the orchestra whirled and settled into their
Whittled orchestra seats.
I wish I was there.
I wish I was the one who first
Was stricken speechless amid giving countless speeches when they first heard a cricket chirp in time with a meadowlark.
and Sparks danced amid the silence,
Too humble to adhere a single silhouette of sound
or even hint at the presence of an audience.
The sound wasn't meant to have applause
Or be critiqued of its brilliance.
Because it was the beginning
Of the resilience of the never ending sound we call
Music.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
**** you society
For making people believe
That there is a certain way to live and breath
Everyone is the same, there is no variety
You outcast those for rioting
And living their life defiantly
What gives you the right to judge me
You are not god almighty
You are the reason for my anxiety
And loss of sobriety
And visits to the psychiatry
But I stand in protest finally
I will no longer sit quietly
And let you decide unjustifiably
What I should be
Your judgment makes people feel insecure
Why do you believe that everyone has to be similar
Why don't you understand that no one is perfect
Why do I have to conform to your culture to earn respect
Why is money the only way to achieve success
Every person lives just like the next
This makes me feel so depressed
**** you, I chose to be unique
I refuse to live a life that's boring and bleak
My life does not need to be critiqued
Your approval will not bring relief
Happiness is key
I will live happy and free
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
A pen and a cup,
they are my seed,
to withstand a filthy need,
and to fulfill an empty creed.
Just hold me in your eyes.
For it is quite,
a rare sight,
to witness a Sunday Smile.
Waking up to the cold air again,
grasping hold of me again,
and the fire is gone.
The wind shuffling the pages of my life,
but I think I’m a little more stable now.
The frequent cheap, empty talks don’t bother me as much.
The songs you taught me,
stuck longer than the religion you sought for me.
Just hold me in your eyes.
For it is quite,
a rare sight,
to reach a Sunday Smile.
I stand still until,
the day gives me the words I’m looking for.
Feels like a collection of meaningful drunk words.
Whenever I look down,
I see my weary conscience,
waving hello in a shallow puddle.
Just hold me in your eyes.
For it is quite,
a rare sight,
to feel a Sunday Smile.
Although I’ve never toured the universe,
forward or reverse,
I have witnessed pale truth,
in a life of epilepsy.
She introduced me to the world,
through a Polaroid view,
as she critiqued my life of solitude.
Just hold me in your eyes.
For it is quite,
a rare sight,
to hold onto a Sunday Smile.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC
There is a very large difference
Between critiquing something
And bullying someone
Critiquing helps a poet grow
KINDLY suggests new ideas
The poet could consider
But in reality
Someone's critiquing
Is not necessarily "the right way"
Because NO poet
Is superior
To others
So any critiquing
Is allowed to be accepted
Or ignored
That is up to the poet
Who is being critiqued
And they are perfectly within their right
To ignore the critiquing
Or to listen to it
And anyone
Is within their right
To RESPECTFULLY
Critique another's work
(Unless they specifically ask them not to of course, some just write for themselves and to express emotions, not to grow as a poet and that is perfectly okay.)
BULLYING
Is critiquing another
IN AN UNKIND FASHION
in a self-important, cruel, egotistical, pathetically self-righteous fashion
Critiquing
SHOULD NEVER
hurt another's feelings
Or harm their emotions
There is no such thing as "too sensitive"
You are not allowed to judge anyone else
For their level of sensitivity
That is not for you to analyze
And that just makes you
A horrible pathetic MEAN person
If you have hurt them
It is YOUR FAULT
even if you didn't mean to
and honestly, I have been at fault before for that too
but it is then YOUR RESPONSIBILITY
to fix it
to try to apologize
to explain what you meant in a kinder way
and recognize
your opinion
which you are entitled to
but your opinion
is not the only one
and it is not necessarily RIGHT.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
I wrote a piece for class and had it critiqued, all about how
I can't remember Eddie's voice
and can't ask his parents for videos
to keep from digging up their pain.
Today I found a flash drive, one I can't place in mind. Popped it in, and tears leaked to my chin because there sat
video file after video file of Jake, Dennis, Eddie, and me on birthdays and outings, at the archery range. It's strange that the voices are young but I can hear him, I can hear him, I can remember
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
When we are born we are born to be made,
Shaped like clay from the confines of the universes hands.
Like art.
And like art we are critiqued,
And like art we become,
Until our colours, thoughts, behaviours form,
And we are human,
We are all in one piece,
And these people stand and these people stand and give their verdict,
And these people stand and extend an invitation to us, an invitation that tells us to now be a "Starry night" instead of a Picasso painting, although they don't know even Starry night had their Picasso days.
And these people stand as they extend their arm, capturing the essence of our being on the street, when sometimes our clay is soft, or when the paint bleeds from us.
But our arms and wrists can bleed,
But our minds are told it cannot,
With the exception of one day to ask: "Are you okay?"
But by then I'm already in the kiln, and already dried to the bone,
Because I am an artist,
And i will shape myself again.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC
200,000
200 K
200 thou
Reads as of today
I wrote of Orion
And silly sleigh rides
Wrote about hometowns
And passionate nights
****** damnable wars
And narcissistic politicians
Wrote sorrowful elegies
Extolled the human condition
Offered odes to loved ones
And critiqued the powerful
Celebrated the splendor of nature
And children most wonderful
Honked loud about jazz
And hot improvisation
Poked fun at the MoMA
Held deep blue introspection
We got many more reads
Than actual likes
I’m growing concerned
That I have more dislikes
But here is one more
Silly trite poem
I hope you like it
You can read it at home
Thanks for all your support….
Simon and Garfunkel
Poem on the Underground Wall
Love Mac…..
Oakland
5/23/16
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
I feel naked in your eyes
skinned, dissected, analyzed
like you already know my thinking,
my secrets, the things I hide even from myself.
You must already know I'm a worrier, and I get high on anxiety like it's my ******* job.
You know that sometimes I make myself eliminate my meals in unhealthy ways to avoid love handles.
I'm almost positive that you know I feel naughty when alone at night and ease my frustration
while thinking of your body.
Your probing eyes
must see my weaknesses,
how I am only a human, a little girl who can not stand to be disliked yet will not accept affection.
Those eyes have seen my fears and insignificant dreams,
like how I wanted to teach immigrants to speak American and give my organs to small, sick children.
Your mind must have some opinion of it all,
all of me, my characteristics and problems and how they mate to create my personality and mannerisms.
I feel so judged and critiqued under your scientific stare,
but the way your eyes stay still and barren, void of all emotion
makes me feel that you are an epicenter of passion that craves to bite into my skin
and I want to let it happen.
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
“*I suppose I will never lead the ordered life my father led.
And I’ll never live in the kind of house he lived in, with its rituals,
its dignity, the smell of polish.*”
Leonard Cohen
<>
the orderly of an individual life,
guided by the guardrails of family life,
superimposed upon it by a calendar of religion,
that layers into you with a cyclicality of communal ritual,
that rules, guides, tides and hides you subliminally, the individual,
in ways that forever alters how one comprehends the meaning of
belonging
the oven~heated, banging smells of the kitchen,
the hubbub, frantic sounds of a Sabbath eve prepping,
vacuuming house cleansing, far more than just a cleaning,
the young boys in their jackets, white shirts, for Friday night
candle lighting, the girls in Sabbath frocks, assisting Mother,
but by
Saturday morning sermon time
those boy’s shirts
were always untucked, sweaty and always less white,
from running around outside synagogue from playing Ringolevio,
for which you were justly critiqued by a mother’s glare-stare
this play-within-a-play poem,
played out in homes nearby,
for community was very defined by geography,
and the candles of Sabbath oft visible in every home as
Fathers & sons returned home from Friday Night services
where the Sabbath’s peace was welcomed like
a new bride.
but the knowledge that this scenario was occurring in
homes around the world in almost identical custom,
lent a larger perspective to even the youngest, of a
belonging
As for me, I passed on that life,
not as well as it was given to me,
but as best I could, or honestly, desired,
but because I the individual inherited these
ways, words, knowledge and sensations and deemed
failing to transmit would be a grievous denial of a heritage
were I to not gift them this order,
the dignity of these rituals,
the pungent smell of a polished home,
a life of intuiting
belonging,
be longing.
Feb 18, 2024
Feb 18, 2024 at 10:09 AM UTC
*I wrote poetry for me
for my eyes only
to be read and critiqued
and pulled apart by moi
but now they are being shared
read by anyone who cares
and some that don't
does this affect my mime
or style
does it cause me to curb
or edit
my words,* overdone
*this gives a new meaning
to my writing,* for sure
*but will it be
for the better
or for the worse*
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC
The Artist waits, breathing deeply,
Pencil poised above the paper.
Images grip her, alluring her to tell their story.
Battles rage ‘tween fearsome pirates, horses race from untold horrors,
Magic glitters on a fairy’s pale hand.
And she fumbles with her pencil,
And soon crumbles up her latest attempt at
A Masterpiece.
Everything’s been done before, everything’s so simple,
Nothing is dramatic, detailed enough
To soothe the artist’s longing
To go further in her art than she has ever gone before.
Then it hits her, hits her hard,
And she awakes from her reverie with a start.
It’s all fake. It’s not real.
The things she dreamed up with her mind, but loved with all her heart.
Everything she’s shaped… given life…
Everything she draws… or reads… or writes,
It’s not real.
Just some stupid Fantasy.
She sits there, sighing deeply,
Paper blank before her eyes.
But she then realizes,
Abruptly,
That then, without a doubt,
Those things may not be real, but for her they’re really there!
All the art that she’s critiqued and
All the worlds she’s created,
Serve a Purpose.
They help to soothe an Artist’s troubled heart.
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 3:11 PM UTC
I get lost in my work.
Hungry again, I note.
The cycle restarts.
Better this time, I hope.
I find some good food,
Making sure to choose carefully,
And snag my water,
An essential, soon, you’ll see.
I avert my gaze—
I fear they’re all eyeing me—
And sit myself down
For a ritual eternity.
Many meals are Hell;
My body a warzone.
What you’ve learned to nurture so
Still hates you to the bone.
I accept this task I must master;
‘Twas not a choice I made.
It’ll stick with me for life;
‘Cause it’s one my genes gave.
The first taste is bliss,
But most bites bring pain quickly.
Size portions correctly;
So tired of feeling sickly.
Pain sears my throat,
So, I chew with vigor.
The swelling is fast;
I pray my water’s quicker.
The drink spells relief,
But every bite’s anxious,
Every swallow torment;
Each pause between captious.
Another meal unfinished; bitter defeat,
The peace remains unreachable.
I craved it so badly, and I was so close,
Now it looks repulsive; uneatable.
I check the scale once more,
So, skinny I remain;
Been mocked and critiqued
For weight, unable to gain.
I am Sisyphus ‘til sated,
The table is my hill,
Sustenance my stone,
And my mind is my will.
I get lost in my work.
Hungry again, I note.
The cycle restarts.
Better this time, I hope.
Jan 31, 2025
Jan 31, 2025 at 8:18 PM UTC
I wish i could just hit you with this writers block.. its the only solid thing that remains on my watch, besides the useless clock and you telling me to stop so i act not positive but only for the thought of my cause. turning rights into wrongs for the darkness is comfort, barrying my head in the dirt So i could think from down under. forgetting where thunder comes from i throw the block over my shoulder and continue to silently soldier my way threw this old curse of lost words.. I've never asked them why it hurts. Just continue to suffer hopen these verbs will work them selves out with an open stir from the colapse of my souls worth.. living dead i relapse on the feeling of hearing some critiqued work. So i write from another artists eyes, relizing the potential of my vocal instrument on a low pitch cure. EARTHH BOUND
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
I’ve been a cracked soul walking on whole concrete
tar black soles slappin rapidly under weary feet..
the slaps are getting old but still, they repeat, they repeat..
like energizer bunnies, beatin deep on the ground beneath..
the sounds drummin off the walls, comin back, an rattlin my teeth..
I added a couple curses and spit it back rattling the streets..
that day I became a shell of a man walkin on cracked concrete
Cerebellum in hand scratchin my head hopin for thoughts to leak..
caught me starin again, eyes open to the sky, posing like an artful greek..
had this eerie feeling inside, tellin me my soul is an authentic antique..
but I still got uncomfortable when my current eugenics got critiqued..
I’m awed and terrified at what’s to come in my last couple a hundred weeks..
but I knew someday I wanna see laughter passin over a couple of my childrens cheeks..
So that day I began to be a whole man, soul searchin and walkin on my own two feet..
I started off by scratchin words furiously on a tattered old blank sheet..
but I don’t do it purposely to get my name on a brightly lit, white, and gold marquis..
it’s just this is the only voice I’ve got to spit a Kodak picture of my soul for free..
so my hands dance out a thousand words on paper.. every moment, a snapshot of “me”..
I rush to gather the images before they drown in reality like hazy morning dreams..
they stand up as living proof of who I am so I frame em for this crazy world to see..
cause today I stand on solid ground with well planted feet, as the man my family always wanted me to be..
I am the conqueror of both whole, and cracked concrete!!
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 1:52 AM UTC
Consulting with my Sculptor
I critiqued His use of clay
To create my well carved features
In such a careful way:
My eyes are held in hollowed
Holes of hardened clay
Though the hue be not hallowed
They’re heavenly all the same.
This nose be a beautiful bridge
Baked by bronze- brown clay
Unbroken by blows for blood
Breeze brings sweet bouquets
Mighty words are measured
From a mouth made of clay
I mix at my leisure
My mouth is untamed
While my hips are not the widest
Of Wonders won with clay
While my waist is not the finest
Wand whittled for display
My frame is flawless and free
Formed by flowing clay
Flimsy words find their way to me
And fall on futile way
As I am an amazing art piece
And I am allowed to say
I acknowledge that my Artist
Has a way with clay
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 8:21 PM UTC
What I write may sound deep
But it's real life
What I write may be critiqued
But it's real life
What pushes me to do this
What motivates me to do this
Pain did
Without pain, I wouldn't be here
Without pain, I wouldn't bother
Even writing this stanza
Yet writing this takes the pain away from me
Yet it comes back to haunt me
They ask me "how do you know what real life is?"
Pain is how I know what real life
Revealed the entirety to me
I didn't live a life of candy and cakes
I live a life of failure and mistakes
Yet I am still here
Telling you how I am able to do this
How I am able to write this
Pain gave me this
And don't say you never felt pain
Couse without pain there is no real life
Yet there is a road of joy and happiness
The most of us find
I am still searching for mine
Yet pain never dies
Still, carry on
Even if I have nothing holding on
Pain showed me
And it will show you
A taste of reality
Pain guided me
Will it guide you?
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
It is June. Plaridel is in sepia, or leaden – whichever,
this is the leitmotif.
Soon clouds with jettison a plodding swathe of
water. You will wear the petrichor,
While a ramshackle of a passing tricycle
whelms a throbbing orchestra of junk.
Here is the hearth that rears no fire:
a mother, children in tow – a troika,
on a cart not even close to ease of
a hurtling thing. Trees naked in vulnerable
green – the verdigris carried by a
miniscule Maya.
Here comes again, the neighbor peering through
the nuisance, is alarmed, eyes like a fugitive,
curses my mother – I grab the nearest, sharpest
object available that was my own hand.
Ingrained deep within, a root – or a stone, among many
other stones in me, this salt-well, a savingslight of turning wave
that is almost an approximate oceanview in me.
Gnarled over the longest time. In here we soothe by
gin, passing out in front of our gated homes,
singing whatever was available, close to our pitch.
Somewhere, Windsor has lost the poem / critiqued by
a mirror fecundating a smeared image, a blot.
A Rorschach was it, or just a day dazed they did.
Somewhere, this is scattered. Uncollected. To make remnants
of as evidence, not to investigate if true.
The 6th body of this is what I am speaking of in glossolalia.
A requiem leaves it stark and cold in this consummate weather.
Another piercing salvage of metal cuts the humdrum town
and unlike the sturdy mango tree, this is a collective of secret
encrypted lasting more than a life.
It is June. Plaridel has ripened from the expired summer.
Perchance the exquisite promise is sweet, holding all the bitterness together,
ready to fall, at last.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:22 PM UTC
How could a father treat strangers better than his own daughter?
Aren’t fathers supposed to love their children?
Who was there when I scraped my knee? not you
Who taught me that a man could be so cruel? You
When venomous lips critiqued me
When I would lie in bed so tired of your alcohol
When I wished I had the dad that other girls had
Are you even a father? A man? Or just completely lost to me?
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 3:02 AM UTC
Man, these opinions be really ******* up my mental.
They don't stop me from making money just stop me from standing tall.
They shouldn't matter and for years I've let them roll off my shoulders.
But as a human being, hearing the same thing only makes me colder.
I don't care what they say, but to my dismay, it's everything you deem unfit.
The tiger stripes on my belly, the extra softness of my thighs.
Things that I viewed as simple characteristics but yet these are unflattering in your eyes.
The bulge of my stomach, the layer of graspable skin on my side
Those are all things that I've let slip from my mind
They don't stop me from soaring higher, achieving goals, or even improving my skill set.
But your gaze is like daggers and your words like bullets
It causes these now undesirable features to fester my soul
If I dare fix them they have to gain your approval.
And for those who still think that words don't matter, step off of your pedestal and let me serve you a reality platter.
If the vast majority declares it outdated you drop it.
If the vast majority says it's trendy you adopt it. And while it may seem easy to ignore the hype, it takes an extremely mentally strong individual to say **** it and goodbye.
We would all like to believe that we're our own person.
But when there is a flaw that is repeatedly critiqued, we lose sight of who we are and that's the number one lesson.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 9:41 PM UTC