Focal Point

I pose therefore That if the rich are allowed a show of opulence A display of power and might Why can't I, A writer but of modest means Be allowed to be pompous in my writing, From which I derive so much joy So much hope, so much - life? Living life on a big spoon, they say of the wealthy Writing with a big pen, Or as the big, brilliant mind conceives I say therefore Of my free-spirited self A pompous writer but of modest means.

I know it's not the best thing to do but I know it suits the time now. She might think its a travesty to the love she feels but it could not be further from the truth. At the moment and in the foreseeable future, it just doesn't make sense that we get together. Because I, normal on the outside, cannot seem to find peace and tranquillity within, what with my demons constantly driving me down the cursed avenues of their nefarious existence. What with my pockets empty as a ghost town. I will make her happy but at the right time. The love is true, the fantasies valid. The time, unfortunately, is a fault. Such is the dilemma of living. How does such a good thing come and claim its rightful place at such a wrong time? Or could it be that it's not the best thing for me or for her? But let it be known that there is none other that makes me feel so warm and fuzzy, and tender and loved. But I just don't know what to do. Let it go or move in and try to build it with her? And wil...

And so will come a time When they will think of days of before Days when there was less and nothing more Days when poverty was pertinent on their miserable door Days when they were prone in ennui on the cold floor And days when food thrice left them in awe It was those days When friends and foes Like day and night would come go Like the waters of the oceans would ebb and flow And now on the honoured floor they stand and pore The cruel fetters of poverty, they vow, to return nevermore Bad memories of depressed days and long nights And a family affair capped with a furious fight Those weary days when thoughts hammered away A future bleak and dreary Shaded in avenues of morbid darkness and pensive hopelessness Showered with tears of agony and walls of poignancy Dripping with a slime of hopeless optimism Bold apathy and mindless consumerism Each shilling spent before it is earned Now lessons, as they gaze at the sun have, Not without flaws, been truly learned.