"ostentatiousness" poems

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

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Nov 13, 2009

Nov 13, 2009 at 7:39 PM UTC

marshal-gebbie

To Love the Skin You Live In.

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

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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 big black 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.

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Nov 5, 2018

Nov 5, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC

babe

Fabula

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 big black 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.

53

In a world brimming with artificiality, with falsity, a parched heart pleads, a sombre soul cries, to put a stop to two facedness Sometimes I pretend, sometimes I speak. Sometimes I am the stooge, sometimes I am the striker. a chameleon in disguise amid an alloy of ostentatiousness, a loud confusion. We have to heal our unhealed wounds though just to flourish despite thorns around. Accepting is the only choice to ease the unreal and look forward to better days as this world is all we have.

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Jun 29, 2021

Jun 29, 2021 at 12:26 AM UTC

arindam-barooah

an alloy of two facedness

In a world brimming with artificiality, with falsity, a parched heart pleads, a sombre soul cries, to put a stop to two facedness Sometimes I pretend, sometimes I speak. Sometimes I am the stooge, sometimes I am the striker. a chameleon in disguise amid an alloy of ostentatiousness, a loud confusion. We have to heal our unhealed wounds though just to flourish despite thorns around. Accepting is the only choice to ease the unreal and look forward to better days as this world is all we have.

16