My Pompous Writing

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.

Love Dilemma

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 will she wholeheartedly embrace my inglorious toils and crippling flaws? Thing is, I don't want to drag her into the fetters that restrain me in perpetual squalor, into the horrible, sinful chambers of my troubled existence. She is just too good to stoop this low. Her beauty too profound to waste away in my blind wanders. And I, too careworn, terribly wasted and dogged with much to worry about to make her happy. And I know she is doing the proper act by moving on. Hopefully, I will find my own love when the time is right. But if life were at my behest, the right time would be now and the love of my life would be her.

Life Teachings

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.