How I hate it when they call me a clown,
Yet I can't help but make people laugh.
It comes unbidden, needing no invitation —
As though a trove of jokes is placed in my mouth.
Often I try to bridle my face and talk tough,
But when a flume of gloom drowns spirits deep down,
Then my sense of humour becomes their salvation —
A spring of joy that quenches sorrow’s drought.
Time has taught me that humour holds a balm ~
It lifts the weight boredom lays on minds.
It brightens paths in life's dark forlorn mines,
And lifts me too, when others' jokes make me smiles.
Humour sheds tears when no cry’s in mind,
It soothes loneliness with enduring calm.
A cashless payment offered sorrow as a fine,
A thrill that ricochets through veins for miles.
A chapter of me should wear the clown's toga proud,
Since joy and radiance my humour brings to faces,
A talent that needs no stress to express,
The reason my presence delights all and sundry.
You applause the actor
Her harmonious tone
Her play of words
Her triumphs heard
But do you love the stage after the song
The leftover footprints from where it sang along
Atoning for every step that was missed
Retrieving the dust from her accomplishments
The dust from the skill she used to win
The dirt from the shoes that store talent within
She takes a bow and stifles her breath
For love won’t come if she shows weakness next
But no one applauds the stage after the show
For being there, for laying low
For setting a platform all but their own
The cleaners perceive them as one last chore
The light flicks off, and what is love?
The stage hadn’t known, from being alone
And it will never know, until the lights flick on
And the cleaner applauds it for all it has done
The T in talent are pieces of tampered glass
Subjugated under capitalism,
And meticulously carving out worthlessness
on the talented's carcass.
The A stands for all the crumbs of appreciation
You collect along your way, feeding your right and just pride
Humbled by a dilemmatic correlation
of efforts and proudness.
The L is tricky, which maybe the love
Or the life that seeps into you through your work,
The ingenuity dies as L extinguishes,
and you will bear the blame of the consequences.
Once you are done loving, you get greeted with E.
The empathetic reign you have grown from flesh and dust
Withers and begs for sympathy, waiting patiently
for a high class judgement from the unnamed jury.
All the nihilistic N you preached,
Comes down to your questioning of moralism,
What great have you achieved with your nothingness,
compared to someone sewing life with devotion?
The T in talent stands for the time
A soul wastes on fixing the tampered glass,
But someone like you who knows how to stand up,
start with talent tomorrow, a journey from zero regardless.
To draw is something …
I could never do well,
The joy a picture can bring
The stories it can tell
I could never do well
Drawing freely on my own,
The stories it can tell
Remains for me unknown
Drawing freely on my own
Pencil, paint and line,
Remains for me unknown
A skill that is not mine
Pencil, paint and line
An artist with a brush,
A skill that is not mine
A talent you cannot rush
An artist with a brush
The joy a picture can bring,
A talent you cannot rush
To draw is something …
Talent has never just one face
Your self-discipline is needed
Your self-improvement also show
That you're also blessed by heaven
But you haven't noticed that
One Malaysian leader confess
I rather choose good character
Who will work for my country
Than has outstanding diploma
Who gallivanting in workplace
I stand in awe after knowing this.
picasso's lines are effortless
he makes it look too easy
to be gifted with such talent
is absolutely magnificently crazy
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
How do these women cut with their bare hands- their surrounding net?
Well, I refer to- Jane, Margaret, Aphra, Virginia and Charlotte,
Who are well known even without their surnames,
And who were well-versed in the field of Literature; to play all kind of games!
The female embodiment of grace,
In the field of writing in which they all were Ace,
Yet none can even now erase,
Their Glorious and Wonderful writing's days.
Austen, Cavendish, Behn, Woolf and Bronte,
Their surnames are enough for knowing the glory to the field of English -
-Literature they had brought,
They too were one of a kind,
And also The Priceless Gems, we may yet never find!
Lift your voice, and sing spiritual hymns.
Raise your hands, and give God the praise, and glory.
Hear God, and preach the gospel.
Thank God for creating you, and giving you eternal life, and not death.
Everyday is a blessing from God.
Be a witness, and a living testimony of God's word, and truth.
No conviction of sin will harm you.
Speak God's name, and confess with your mind, and body forgiveness from sin, and have a willing heart to do his will.
There is salvation in heaven.
Divine revelation, and a gift of God's unconditional love will save you.
See, and hear God reign over the world, heaven, and hell.
Talent
hidden
you have talent
write it out for others
to discover your gift as a
poet
I am a writer,
A crafter of sculptures
Showing off ability in creativity.
Beyond experiences of my own,
Beyond feelings of my own.
I take a stroll in journeys of others,
And pave routes in imagination.
I fill gabs yet to be discovered,
And open doors yet to be walked in.
I bleed pain through ink in hand
And Keep my journal thriving in scripted thoughts
I give life to thoughts in shapes unknown
I am a writer,
And I am artistic.
I paint pictures felt with a full heart,
And then again mend a broken heart.
I am like a magician,
I am bound to make the world dance to the beat of my drum.
This is talent wrapped in a golden foil
Some attribute their breath to nature's sway
Their restroom visits, a natural way
They trust their sleep, an inbuilt alarm to wake
But I, with years of wisdom, know fate's uncertain make
Not all who sleep awaken, nor all who use the loo
Return unscathed, for danger lurks, both old and new
But I, a humble soul, attribute my life's design
To the Maker of the universe, the Author of my rhyme
My talents, skills, and abilities, all gifts from above
My writing, a reflection of His endless, boundless love
The food I eat, the water I drink, the air I breathe
All sustenance from His hand, a daily, merciful deed
The car I ride, the roads I walk, all fraught with peril's might
Yet I, a grateful heart, acknowledge His guiding light
For some have fallen, devoured by life's hungry, savage way
But I, a thankful soul, give praise, come what may
Unto my Maker, I acknowledge and confess
My life, a gift from Him, a treasure to possess
May His name be praised, forever and always
The Maker of the universe, my heart's eternal praise.
Talent isn't a gift, it's a muscle. It's forged in the quiet moments, the late nights, the endless practice. It's birthed from dreams, nurtured by passion, and shaped by relentless pursuit. So, dream big, practice hard, and let your talent bloom.
A star is born
A Young Man auditioned for a Theatrical show
He thought it might not be an accepted go
He remembered the advice his Grandfather would say
“Go out and do your best, and let your confidence shine through.
Before you know it, your expectations will pay off”
The Theatrical show was a Drama, the Director was looking for a Star Role in being the lead of “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM”
It was a play about knowing who a person is and finding their place in life
Seems fitting as the Young Man’s life falls into the category
On with the story
The Young Man was nervous yet confident
He had no idea in how the Director will respond to his audition
The Young Man had no theatrical experience
Only encouragement being his Grandfather’s influence
He read the script with Drama, Emotion and the Director felt his feeling
Later, the Director asked the Young Man did he act before, and he replied No that he was a natural
The Director then stated, Congratulations
You got the Lead Role
Thanks to the encouragement over the years from his Grandfather
Words from the wise
Bird saw he was in the raw
~ composed ‘Turkey in the Straw’
Middle aged man in Docs,
vintage leather jacket and
grey haired pubes around his cock.
Ill fitting tour shirts rekindling a hazy past.
Barrowlands, The Bunnymen. Hammersmith Odeon,The Clash.
U2 at University pre Bono crawling up his own ****.
Danced and hugged on stage with Terry Hall,
arrested for d&d outside Bradfords Great Hall,
after watching John Cooper Clarke supporting The Fall.
Life reinvigorated by the post punk explosion,
no longer searching the NME gig guide,
but a Spotify recommendation.
or an even sadder email notification.
A pre gig meal opposed to a walk home pie in a barm.
Ear buds for the tinnitus and Bisoprolol to keep calm.
Heartbreak to watch the talent unrewarded,
by a government devoid of a cultural foresight.
Stifled opportunities
through Tory Brexit lies,
Allowing the corporations of Cowles and the EMI’s to
reap million upon million,
leaving the grassroots unnurtured, venues struggling to stay open.
Our greatest export,
an industry broken.
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