I've lived in the shadow of comparison, where every step is measured against another's pace.
The weight of expectation crushes me,
as I'm reminded that I'm not leaving up to their standard.
The echoes of 'you'll never be like him' haunt me every step of the way .
I'm tired of being defined by someone else's excellence.
Tired of being told I'm not enough,
that my efforts are futile.
The pressure to conform is suffocating, yet l yearn to break free from the mold that binds me.
In the mirror of others' eyes, I'm distorted,
a reflection of their biases and expectations.
My ideas are dismissed,
my achievements overlooked.
But when he presents the same thoughts, they're met with applause and validation.
I'm exhausted from trying to fit into shoes that aren't mine.
Exhausted from living in someone
else's reflection.
I crave authenticity, to be seen and supported for who I am.
I want to shatter the glass ceiling of expectation
and forge my own path.
So Can someone help me find my voice,
my identity,
and my strength?
Can someone see me,
hear me,
and support me for who I am,
And who I want me to be?"
Comparison, Comparison
She is good at
dancing, singing
Reading, writing
I can't hold it
ANYMORE!
Tired of being COMPARED
Always breaking down
BUT, Never gonna happen
the samething.
It's my time to shine
Put all my hardwork
And Today, My Hardwork
Paid off.
Today I am the onlyone Shining
Winning result
Words create my art
Etymology canvas
Syllable brushstroke
The Chosen
People say not being the chosen one is the worst.
But what if it isn’t?
What if you’re chosen—
but for all the wrong reasons?
Yes, I was chosen,
just to be a measuring tool—
something to compare,
against unfinished things,
just to feel better about yourself.
Like a trophy,
kept in plain sight,
on a neatly managed shelf.
Only ever looked at
from a distance—
always just a glance,
never long enough to notice.
Perhaps if they had,
they would have seen the rust.
Yes, I was chosen—
as the permanent wrong choice,
the one that reminds you
of what you could have had.
Like a roll of dice—
“if only I had thrown it differently,
if only I got another number…”
If only.
I was always the what if.
I was chosen—
but only to blame,
like how you blame the corner
when you stub your toe.
Never atleast a deserving blame.
There’s a difference
between being chosen
and being wanted.
What’s the point of being chosen
if all you hear
is the echo
of the one who wasn’t?
Who is truly chosen?
And how do you even define it?
What’s the point of being chosen
if wanting never follows?
I am a forgotten home
where people fall through slats in
floors wooden, scarred by pulled
furniture. Footprints lost under dust.
I am a derelict building
where industry once flourished.
Fires raged and pallets stacked.
Assembly lines ran in humming circles
eternal now form static loops lost
without worker. Ghost metal halos.
I am a garden overgrown
with crisscrossing blades and
thorns cursing from shadowed trenches.
Mud slops over once shining
pathways like greasy suds spilling from
sink, scrubbing at stains immortal.
I am a hollow man,
a hurt man.
I am a man devoid.
An airless body.
Driving is not a sport for the unrehearsed,
practice makes perfect on a speeding track.
The steering wheel is a discus, blunt and capable of slicing/dicing.
A handbrake? A pull-snap-stop bone break.
Electric windows are guillotines; seatbelts are nooses in softer attire.
An Olympian goes for gold; drivers should settle for bronze on a road.
I yearn to put banana your hole honey
I wish to lick your cherry nipples
What can't purchase love is money
You truly scent fragrance of apples
I covet to kiss your cheese lips
I have spent the better part of my life
In a never ending state of comparison
That's been impossible to escape,
Scrutinising every inch of me
Down to the bone,
Looking in the mirror
Feeling wholelly alone.
I marked in my head
All the things I would change.
None of me was safe
From the silent surgery I'd make,
Not even myself
Down to the core.
I'd observe other people,
Adopting quirks and habits
In the hopes of becoming more admirable
To everyone I knew or would meet
Until the few existing layers
Of my own that still remained,
Were covered so well in the ground,
Existing in their own graves
That forever goes untouched.
Never have I been able to escape
This state of comparison I seem to exist in.
Forever am I the pathological people pleaser,
Willing to change just to be liked,
Never truly feeling like I could be enough as I am.
Poetry paints prismatic word-pictures
A cubist painting programmed in plain air
Poetry and painting prize pure features,
For centuries, art crafted with grand care
Let us journey to juxtapose the two
Both attract the primeval painters' flair
With colours in rich red, yellow, and blue
Words sketching with wise theatrical care.
Try to catch and caress the words you see
Draw sights and sounds into your fractal soul
Organic lines jotted down joyously
As fractal forms that fill Metatron's scroll
Golden spirals smeared in an author's room
Are geometry's homage on a loom.
Love is a corpse,
a slab on table and a checklist of finds,
6’ 2’’, rich, educated, white, slim,
a post-mortem on a body still fresh
Love is a casino,
a gamble in bright lights,
a bargaining of chips falling where they may,
an under-table sleight of hand
Love is a firework,
a hallucinogenic bonfire blaze
that spirals and swirls with a forever
waiting, a waiting for the bang, the explosion,
the sizzle from cosmos down to earth
Love is a house
with a cupboard for stale secrets
and a creak in an old spine staircase,
flagging passion hung out to dry above
yellow grass in need of water, can rusted
Love is silence is shout is cry is shake
is laugh is let down is let up
is cloud is volcano is dormant is erupt
is triumph is disaster is trust is tryst
Orange peel. Scent fresh but bitter,
tangible in taste and air. A circle in fruit
that dangles and is turned, twisted from
branch. The challenge to keep the
peel whole, no break. Sink teeth into
sweet segments of dripping flesh.
Orange rust. A door, a gate. Age in crinkling
metal, steel ancient with salt and sun and
seasons beating what thought strong. Orange
rust of a family home, a flake for each child
who flies the nest. Rusted crisped wings. Upon
closer inspection the rust appears golden.
Not amber nor red,
neither start nor stop.
A forever-in-motion colour.
Seeing a burnt image of a city destroyed
I imagined it was an Gaza update
I saw some celebrities crying on TV
Wondering what the future holds
Never mind,
If it were Gaza, it doesn’t matter
Imagine LA is Gaza!
The areal image is so similar.
THE HEAVYWEIGHT AND THE FEATHERWEIGHT
Poem written for Ridiculous Comparisons Poetry Contest, Miranda Hawley, sponsor, July 23, 2025
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There’s the elephant, a lumbering titan,
a true heavy weight with a heart that beats like thunder,
each footfall a seismic event,
a gentle giant, who with the grace of a ballet dancer
could crush a car if ballet were performed in slow motion
and involved a lot of mud.
Then there’s the hummingbird—a blur of iridescence,
a caffeine- sugar- fueled acrobat, a featherweight warrior
who sips nectar like a drunken poet,
lost in a world of fleeting moments.
It’s a tiny, feathered daredevil,
with the attention span of a gnat.
Happy Mother’s Day!
Hooray, should I say?
Nay! ‘Tis naught but disarray you fool
I dodge ducks – their beluga-toned feathers at least–
and the platinum pillows from whence they came
Whizzing by like my long four years of fame,
Eggs of pikachu hue, toast of darkest sinew
Oh no, I must go
She’s as happy as a blobfishy
How was I to know
Her special day was two months ago?
My husband is like a ripening pumpkin
Loves to lie down inert on the ground, most of the time.
Lack of exercises has made his belly bloat,
Like pumpkin, that now he looks a comic sight.
A pumpkin carved in shape with a light inside,
Serves as an adornment in Halloween season.
Though funny to view, he is beautiful inside,
With a light shining bright all through the seasons.
As the pumpkins are so versatile and can be put to use,
In making a number of dishes, both sweet and savory,
He has multi talents and adds so much of spice to my life,
That without him, I will be like a flat tyre with no spare!
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