Good enoughI will never going to be good enough for you,More Like This
From the moment you looked at me I knew,
You always think and say I have to do better,
But my opinions and how I feel do not matter,
Your dissatisfaction is the only feeling I can feel,
It makes my self-disgust and self-hate more real,
And it doesn’t matter how hard I try nor what I do,
I will never be good enough according to you,
Now, as you turn away,
My life returns to grey,
“Your grades should be better”,
How I feel just doesn’t matter,
I have tried everything I knew,
But nothing ever worked on you,
I’m good enough when I dream,
But once I wake up; I just scream,
And with only one; single word,
You are able to shatter my world,
My efforts you cannot see,
So you just punish me,
Proud of me you will never be,
I might as well drown in the sea,
And it will never matter; because whatever I will do,
I will have no chance of being good enough for you,
Everybody is different yet you compare me to the rest,
Scripto Forum, or, Notes on various pointsScripto Forum, or, Notes on various pointsMore Like This
I preface this with a slight declaration: this is entirely my personal opinion. In a reference to Eric Remarque in All Quiet on the Western Front I say: This is neither an instruction nor a rant; merely the personal opinions of me on these various topics.
I. Amusing capitalisation
One of a multitude of things I find when traipsing about the internet is different people's beliefs in the laws of writing, language, and, in particular, punctuation. There are several types of people that exist in the world of capitalisation alone, not counting all the other fields of writing:
1. The Capitaliser Of Every Word They Ever Write.
This type for some reason unbeknown to the remainder of us insist on capitalising every word. Perhaps they do it for emphasis --perhaps merely to annoy. When emphasising a particular word, you should only capitalise it if it feels right. Even better is to italicize it, or at worst, underline
The Madman--short storyThe MadmanMore Like This
It was the Westbridge madman who entered the store, setting the bell ringing. The shopkeeper, a most agreeable man named Mursh looked up, and sighed with despair.
‘I say my good man,’ said the madman, whose name was Petrov, ‘a pound or two of your finest rice.’
‘Rice? What sort?’ Mursh asked, worried.
‘Oh Basmati will do fine,’ Petrov replied, his green eyes gleaming.
The shopkeeper took the rice jar from the shelf, and opened the lid with difficulty. He seized the wooden scoop and looked expectantly at the madman. Then Mursh picked up a little hessian bag and was about to pour the rice into it when the madman said ‘No! Not in the bag!’
They both stared at each other.
‘Well,’ Mursh asked impatiently, ‘do you want it or not?’
‘Yes, pour it into my coat pocket.’
Mursh thought to himself ‘The man is crazy. The man is crazy,’ as he poured the pound spoonfu