Cry not for what you do not have
Bleed less for what is given,
For the cruelty in your fellow man
Will paint how greed is driven.
The silent fields of Sobibor
And Dachau's dull grey light,
Pay testament to past largess
In what is wrong and right.
Conception's teeming contest
Has dispensed your primal luck,
Your greater expectations
Have run, gratuitously, amok.
For what you are is what you get
This mirror's image barks,
And delusional ostentatiousness
Reinforces those remarks.
Seek not the golden rainbow
Nor pursue the greener field,
For disaffected affectations
Promise you a simple yield.
Learn to love the skin you live in
Irrespective of the warts,
Live within your  limitations
Despite disparaging retorts.
Count the blessings of the moment
Take each small step at a time,
Come to terms with who you are
And you will find it all...sublime!.



Marshalg
@theBach
14 November 2009

I still can’t find the words
Because, perhaps, a part of me feels
That you’ll look at me like I have ten heads
If I say how I cannot heal.

Perhaps I don’t want to heal at all,
Now I am a vulnerable, scorned thing.
The looks of realisation passing over their faces
As I tell my sorry story, my frightening fabula.

The tale of poppies and lilies and
The coldest winter I have ever known.
I was skin and bone with a ******* coat
And I didn’t like who it was that I was.

The tale of glassy eyes and cold ones
And throwing yourself at me
The tale of black and white pudding
Of Brett Ashley and Daisy Buchanan
Of ostentatiousness unrivalled.

I still can’t find the words
I’m angry, sad, tearful in public alone
Confused and bewildered.
Is that how you love someone?
Or claim that you do?

Is that the ‘nice thing’ you’re holding back?
Is that the swivelling chair or the casting couch?
Is that why I cannot seem to get over it?
Not over you, it.

And you say you weren’t well at the time.
I supposed we were both stuck clinging to each other
To broken to move away, to scared to be alone.
But no, this isn’t an excuse.

I still can’t put it into words
How profoundly odd I feel these days
You didn’t hurt me but you hurt me
And all I can see if your smirking face.
‘Calm down, you’re gorgeous.’

Oh, I could hate a hurt like that.
My sorry story, fantastic fabulam
Is it too posh if I speak outside English?
Why do you care? You knew who I was.
You know who I am.
You know.

And I’ll bet you also can’t find the words
So you hide behind cheap drinks and albums
And everything scummy because you despise who it is that you are.
Hoi polloi, the common man.
Whatever ‘common people do.’

I still can’t put it into words
And I don’t want to.
It’s too complex and I don’t have the energy to tell a story
To tell the world of the war I won
The hollow victory, the end of our empire.
Red lips, red boots, silver shoes.
Go to sleep, it’s over now.

Prince of darkness...?
Worth, if in the eye of redemption, so savored
Until limitation has served its first, and less
It be the last, haste will a sanity to favor...?

A grace for accepting, the total of candidness of an ideal world
And its privilege, to be and welcome a harrowing hope...
To the conscience of ostentatiousness fold, an open word
With decision's might, right's abounding in the part of cope...

Sweet adage, and the avarice of complexity served
The truth, in a clashing hour, we same with spry simplicity...
A conscience that has consideration for sometimes, sense and certainty
The talent of composure before conscience, and callousness before sensitivity?

Like the wares and common price of liberty?
These aging light's, these earnest carriages...
Of creation in a focused light, is arduous and avidness to seem...
Pasts and futures that lead to mores, forth season's, mission...

Family's of context, control and capable love...
Known a finished kiss of redoubt, that need has named lore...
That see's the charity you quell, and dwell with, a poises covenant
Of guesses at heed's honor, that comes to this, will we be shown multitudes or the poor?