"patronising" poems
Don't press pause on real life..
Cause in just a blink of an eye..
Everything changes,
In front of you.
It's so wonderful.
And don't spend your days angry
Just spend a moment sulking :')
Cause every-thing right now is temporary..
..I'll too, just be a memory.
So won't you live a little,
And remember me?
Bump into me 5 years later,
With a different hair colour;
Oh go out there, and live your dream
Send me messages now and then,
And i'll get a pen and some paper
Oh won't you live life, cause there will never be another..
At least not one like this,
Oh you are beautiful I must,
Admit.
Clocks are turning,
Earth spins..
My mind wakes up to the thought
Of "are you okay?"
.. Almost everyday.
But next year I'll care for me too
I'm 18, hey, lets get a tattoo-
Of an Ed Sheeran song..
That'll be a memorable one,
For sure.
Oh won't you promise,
To stay so strong?
I know that sounds patronising
But in the poems i've been writing,
I've found strength in this place here between my lungs;
Yeah these words from the heart;
I hope they light up the dark,
For you
I promise I'll never fade.
I'll still be annoying as hell
And maybe sappy as well
And will I ever move on?
Only time can tell.
But for now darling just live
Oh everyday is beautiful,
I must admit.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
Nature/Nurture
Which one hurts ya?
Born a ***** or raised a *****
Take your pick.
Mother Nature can be sick,
But so can your mother and so can your father.
Look at yer brothers
Look at yer sisters
All of 'em idiots
None of 'em got jobs
What's your prospects?
A life of desk jobs?
Nah, dealing and stealing
Taking without feeling
That's what you'll do
No dreams of being well-to-do.
You were born poor,
Raised to be poor,
Cos you're forgotten by the government,
No votes to be gained from givin' you a helping hand.
Born poor, stay poor.
No cultural capital
To help cast off the metaphorical manacles
That shackle any sense of aspiration that might give you inspiration
To defy nature
To defy nurture.
------------------------------
I'll prove ya wrong!
I was born poor for sure,
Raised poor is right,
But my folks weren't sick,
They raised me not to be a *****
My bloodline shows no decline
Just not born with entitlement,
So don't judge,
That's just ******* lazy
Don't believe the argument:
Nature versus nurture
I am me, now,
So don't get frenetic about my genetics.
I have free-will
I will pay my bills,
Not be defficient,
But be self-sufficient.
And what about you?
Sat in your Ivory Tower
Indulging in your power to judge those you don't know,
Believing them to be a product line of people scrounging,
Needing hand downs from the Crown
Doing nothing but clowning around,
Smoking dope
Being without hope.
But I will be someone,
And prove you wrong,
So put your patronising way to bed
Coz I'm not lazing away until I'm dead.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
Recollecting endeavours drives her to a dry pain
Throbbing, throbbing
Hamlet's hamartia discards her to the lowest of the dead
His vanity requires no response;
Her life on the line and he's got nothing to lose.
So much more the eye can see
Caressing, caressing
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass;
Leave me, carbuncle:
Words she has never been able to utter . . .
Loudly, she thinks it
It doesn't translate
Shivering, quivering
Brittle monster bestows one final patronising kiss
I must exercise some form of self control
Hardly aware of her departed lover,
She lays in a yellow blanket;
Phosphenes in the emerging light of day.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
‘Are you a boy or a girl?’
They shout down the corridor in a chorus behind me
Like the cries of “Good morning, Miss” in assembly
The patronising tone
in sleep deprived confusion
Droning throughout the halls
ringing around ‘she’.
Going to lessons is the scariest thing
Head down, walking fast hoping
they’ll never say anything
Hoping no one will question you
Glance around and notice you
not daring to look up
in case you make a wrong move.
You can’t know what it’s like to be
in a room all alone,
in a house that is not your own;
'Your body is a temple’ they said.
But they don’t tell you how to treat it
if it’s right in your head
but wrong in your skin,
and that feeling
of being and existing
is like dealing
with a thousand anxieties
suffocating within;
Chest too obvious
voice too loud and feminine
not enough to be ‘gentleman’.
'Why does this bother you?'
I hear you enquire,
it's because society’s construct
of gender is too based on attire,
an old fashioned concept-
Telling your children
that 'blue's for boys'
'pink's for girls'.
'Is it really?' I say.
Gender is not just binary
it fluxes and changes,
just like any scientific theory;
Einstein for instance,
didn’t come up with special relativity
in a night!
It took years of work
until he was right
Let this apply for gender too:
not just black
and white it's not as
clear cut as that
this is black and this is white
Evolve the theory
from system to spectrum
of freedom and pride
to reside in one's body happily:
Humanity allied.
This is what I dream about,
but it is not what
I've been living throughout,
in our world of shame;
where we are reduced to words and themes.
Driving my community,
those who love and support me,
to thoughts of suicide.
Being known
only when they're reduced
to rags and bones,
dead bodies
hanging
from their hashtags
thrown in the corner
another into the pile of disorder...
But people think it’s okay
to come up to you
abuse you in the street.
Knocked to your knees
to cries of 'queer'-
you end up living in fear-
'well, what do you expect given
who's watching Wall Street?'
Yet I stand here
talking to you
a queer boy-
with all connotations of the word-
a queer boy with a voice.
Look at me!
My chest,
My unbroken voice,
My broken mind.
I am not proud of what I am,
what I’ve become and
how much it hurts
is indescribable to you.
I am not what you want me to be.
I am a man.
Not trans.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
My good side is struggling for supremacy
over my bad side which is brimming with evil glee
I could cause them so much trouble
burst their patronising bubble
It would be so easy to return the pain
but nobody would actually gain
I’ll keep their mistake inside
because telling would hurt my pride
Today my good side has won
but bad side is waiting with a loaded gun
I hope I can keep turning the other cheek
revenge only makes me weak
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:51 AM UTC
Oh so patronising, I spit on your horizon,
you are so ****** up.
Pity hides from you, wake up and use another,
fragile and sneaky,
vulnerable and nasty,
false and three faces, loose cannon at the weekends,
you swim in a river of sad friends,
touch the gates of hell and get to ****
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 9:28 PM UTC
*as if you know anything there is to know about me
nothing you say can prove you know
'grow up' no SHUT UP
really should stop crying
yesterday's tears trace patterns down your cheeks
turn the other way, don't watch me cry
even that patronising tone in your voice makes me tremble
and the way you stare at me with your accusing hazel eyes
rumour has it you're so far gone but still you're just angry tears and*
silence
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 1:07 PM UTC
Monday
A telephone call from the Doctor.
He wants to know why I haven't been to see him
and no he can’t come to me unless
I open the door. The old one used
to leave medicine on the window sill,
this one has rules I think. He's young
so he follows them.
Tuesday
The Vaseline smears on the window have faded
and now they’re not enough to obscure the truth.
Smoke and mirrors of inclement weather
need to be framed and hung.
I’ll have to buy more.
In preparation I disappear inside
my coat. No-one sees me,
but now the cat is cold and
he'll need litter instead.
Wednesday
Made up faces are patronising me from
the South Bank, concerned to find me
hiding in cobwebs. I beg them to stop.
They suggest I call this number and choose
A, B or C.
Thursday
I find mould growing in the bath.
I water it down
and make finger paintings
of the people I used like.
Sludgy green eyes and plug hole hair,
rust coloured cheeks.
I don’t remember enough but it suits them.
Friday
Sharp toothed children knock on my door.
They want their laughter back. I tell them
I can’t do that, using the letterbox and
gingerly offering the tears I’ve collected.
My hand is slapped from underneath.
I’m drying out.
Saturday
I stay in bed today.
The floor is slipping away.
Sunday
I watch Songs Of Praise
and pray. He'll get back to me tomorrow.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 8:45 AM UTC
if art is to survive the rich have to remember the
concept of patronage,
but like all the rich with the pope included
they think patronage equates itself to philanthropy,
but not all the poor can provide escapism with a sistine chapel,
patronage patronage patronage...
god, i’m sounding just like anthony blair
giving children almost free education
and the afghanistan / iraq wars... you know that
famous slogan: educationeducationeducation...
yeah, let’s juggle those idiots for the conveyor belt of our whims...
otherwise self-promotion will take over without patronage
and with self-promotion we’ll have absolutely no original content...
just a lot of people in queues shuffling through with elbows tearing
feathers for “the golden manuscript,” “the goldmine of applause!”
without patronage you only have patronising content of a work,
that’s the evidence: no patronage = patronising evaluations;
but then again we’re talking about people wanting free art,
which means that everyone can become a self-righteous artist
and no art will leave the high school art class rooms,
while “true” artist will require large open spaces,
coat hangers, toilets, mummified plastic sharks, mannequins
in ***** poses... and added space
for thought... don’t know where the added space for thought
will come from, given thought itself is the added space...
i guess we’ll need to cross-reference timing that space with ooh, ah,
hmm, what do you think about this piece?
‘can i smash it to pieces?’
wow... so innovative! so original! what would you call it?
‘pisces in a herring swarm of ***********
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
You turned your back on me today
didn't even have the guts to say,
Cast out like a homeless person
Only teaching me one more lesson.
I was slowly getting my life back
Seeing me fight barriers and tears,
Finding music as my therapuatic track
Back and forth I went for a few years.
Building me up making me strong
Then with one swipe I was gone,
Not caring if it was right or wrong
As least I knew for a while I shone.
You took your patronising aid
Threw it back in my joyful face,
All the love and care you displayed
Then lit the fire while in bed I layed.
I may glow brighter as you fall
When your gone I will still be here,
setting a spark with one swift call
But I will remember have no fear.
(C) Grant Dickson 08/07/2018
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 7:29 AM UTC
I earned this status in a very vulnerable and upsetting moment in my life.
Of course, it was exploited and took advantage of. Me.
I served as an inside joke, a clown for others to get a kick out of, free use and laughter for others.
All whilst patronising me! I was oblivious. This, accompanied by other hardships, continued for a ruthless and renting four years, until it ceased.
The joke had gotten old, and they let me be.
More or less, this goes to show what true reality is like. Vulnerability is what monsters prey after! Like a shark huffing the scent of blood underwater, they prowl.
Oct 31, 2024
Oct 31, 2024 at 4:28 PM UTC
I was sitting on a train
I didn’t have my headphones so
I was listening to the announcements
The woman’s voice is butter light but
A little bit patronising:
“If you have an Opal card, please remember to tap-off”
Because what else am I going to do to get through the turnstile?
I’m too short to jump it
And I am not a ghost
And then I start thinking of her,
The woman who gave her voice to a train
If she can still use it anymore
If it annoys her when she hears it on her way to work
If she’s changed it like an embarrassing name or
Moved to a different state?
And do they have different voices in
Melbourne or Brisbane or Tasmania?
And what about the bloke
Who gave his voice to the station?
“Please be advised, smoking is not permitted on the platform”
Which is a ****** ‘cos I could really do with a smoke.
But then again what if
Train Woman and Station Man aren’t real?
What if they were made by a computer program?
And if so,
Did someone have to give their voice to a computer?
But that’s just crazy –
It would mean the robots are coming and
We’d all be gonskies
If they ever learn to think what we don’t tell them.
But they kind of already do, right?
Don’t know the science of it really but
I think therefore I am
Someone in history says this, but they’re wrong
I am therefore I think
Or I am, but don’t think, but am anyway
And Train Woman’s voice is here, right?
It’s speaking to us, but is a thing that is intangible
Still a thing?
And this is why I need to remember headphones –
I’ve missed my stop.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 5:06 AM UTC
Man it's a lot of ****
Analysing, brain frying,
Patronising, always trying,
They disguising, people dying,
Thrown in head first,
Shown how to make it worse,
Suppressed till you gonna burst,
Can't express except through verse.
Powerful men, we can't stop them,
They fight the problem with the problem,
We just ignore it, say 'fuck it, sod them',
Told what is yours, what you need,
Told off if you don't pay to feed,
Can't find some land, plant some seeds,
Cause its all owned by some man's greed,
I'm still happy, roof above me, food in my belly,
But I can see its all just money,
I just want a garden and a stream,
One day I'll live my own dream. (2/3/2018)
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 5:18 AM UTC
To live among spiders where webs make up paths,
Upon which I find myself tangled,
Forced to watch them roam with ease while they look upon me with judging eyes,
“A pity, such a pity.” They say as they pass,
Patronising me,
Just because my legs are accustom to simple silk,
Not emotional webbing.
May 9, 2023
May 9, 2023 at 7:22 PM UTC
Space, ease, myself
breathing, feeling the stitches
under my ribs and the poison
in my body, in my head
Not thinking about that
Every day a friend
who cares
about her own interests
No curiosity, patronising
and consolation, only
an embrace and
being spoiled a bit
Awake, not dreaming
in my sleep, walking around
in the colours of the world
and eating roasted peanuts
in the park, the park
always a park
a forest, a **** or a beach
and otherwise my balcony
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 4:00 AM UTC
The Non-art
At a posh theatre in New York where ticket prices
Are more than a working man's monthly wage
An actor took it upon himself to lecture the vice- president-elect
In a manner that was both offensive and patronising
What is an actor? It is a person who speaks the lines written by others
And if he speaks those lines smoothly ***** is famous
Acting is not really an art form more like a mimicking form it
Comes in the same category as poetry a non-art
What can we say about the publican who applauded this display?
Of vulgarity other than to find them tasteless and ignorant
Actors should speak their lines political opinions off stage the same
Goes for poet to write your dreamy lines but leave your
Politics to the Twitter pages
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
I am so confused wondering what I have done.
I am whisked away from my home for what seems like a thousand miles.
They are so nice to me and I wonder why.
Emotions are running high and I see a sense of guilty sorrow in their eyes.
As we reach our destination in beautiful gardens filled with people having cups of tea.
Staff in funny clothes ask me how I am and call me by name. Asking me if I would like to have some fun.
How is this possible
How do my family know them and I don't.
They look at me with false smiles and patronising reassurance.
My family observing the scene of discovery.
Trying to show an interest for my benefit.
An unfamiliar room we enter is deliberately filled with familiar objects.
Smells of home entering my memory.
I know deep inside that this is my new home and my family will soon be gone.
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 2:21 AM UTC