"fabricate" poems
Keep it honest, maintain it humble.
Let it show... From deep within...
Fabricate if you must, adorn with tassels.
First know the seed before you begin.
Let it sprout wings, in your cradle.
Let soar from emotions and thoughts akin.
Let honesty shine forth from the rubble,
Let humility speak in volumes of what we mean.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
I have bruises like amethyst
But the truth is I’m the catalyst
When I see colours of bismuth
I know you mean business
Bruises like amethyst
But you say you’re a pacifist
An analyst an activist
But you held my mind so it contorts, distorts
And aborts so it can’t resonate or fabricate
Or rationalise a world inside
That doesn't exist and insists
That I can’t be kissed and won’t be missed
I've got a black heart like tourmaline
But I'm the alkaline to your acid time
Trust me I am fine, I'm a pale blue
Crystalline Structural perfection
Don’t need your affection or your ways
Of objections did my bra strap give you an
Erection?
You could say I'm a feminist
But I'm more of a scientist
Busting body myths like biologist
You say ‘but **** are ****** organs’
Listen you morons, all ******* are a erogenous zone
Regardless of gender , boys nips literally have no purpose
Except when they get nervous for getting a little lip service
Trust me I'm fine, I'm a pale white crystalline
Structural perfection I don’t need your objection
Not a gem stone for your collar bone I don’t give a **** about
Your muscle tone, I'm a cyclone all alone I could spend a
1,000 years on my own.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
I could tell you the exact day I became complacent
I can recall the way he parted his hair and the way he touched a steering wheel and the color of his eyes
And how he cared enough about me to make sure I didn't drink and drive
But not enough to stop mixing my drinks all night
And since I can't stand up for myself, he watched as I fell apart
I am a marionette with a broken string but **** he's a master in the art
Constantly moving me; bending my frame and pulling my wires
And keeping me onstage whenever he desires
But it's hard for me to play my part and keep up with my lines
When I come home smelling like a different cologne each night
When I am just an empty canister they keep bringing to their lips
Begging and pleading me to offer them something with purpose
But it's always the same story:
They fabricate me
I break and I bleed under their idea of self discovery
And my selfish idea of recovery
Out of every sweet name or ***** word they've ever called me
I think I've found that "Lonely" is my favorite thing to be
I haven't lit a cigarette in weeks, but tonight I'll light three;
One for him, one for me, and one for the person I swore I would never be
Listen;
My biggest flaw is that when I settled for feeling comfortable,
When I settled for what he told me I was
I never even bothered learning self-love
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 2:05 AM UTC
It’s kinda pointless
The purpose was clear as its intention
But still, it was kinda pointless
It was like when a kid lets go of his balloon.
The string slowly evaporates from his hand
As he covers his brow looking skyward to the horizon
He let go of his first lover because maybe that would make his wishes come true
Or maybe he let it go so a part of him could touch God.
It was kinda pointless.
Our on and off again two month relationship
Every two months or so I would create every insecurity that my poetic lips could fabricate
Twist and turn on my restless nights in one way street fashion
But those other every two months
Were magical
I could write a million poems about your body if only my hands weren’t too busy touching it
I would memorize the way your footsteps walked home incase I ever needed to find you
And every song on the radio was our love song
But for another two months I let you go officially
And I guess that was kinda pointless
*** now I pointlessly think aimlessly for why I did it
Maybe I just didn’t want to see you evaporate from my hands again
Or maybe it’s *** I thought if I let go of my first lover, my wishes would come true
Or maybe it’s because when I’m kissing you, I feel like I could touch God
And that just scared me
But when a kid lets go of a balloon,
He thinks he’s done with it, but he knows he’s never gonna get it back.
But God, damm it, I want it back.
I want a reason to smile and know I’m smiling for a reason
I want something to hold my wrist, to go on adventures with
Making love with you was never pointless, and no, I don’t regret it.
In fact, it was flawless.
And I’d be skipping for days, waiting to do it again
But the feeling was lost. We let it evaporate from our hands.
We let our emotions escalade and we lost it.
Sacrificed it to a summer’s day
Watched it float into one of God’s crevices
Letting go you, was like letting go of a balloon.
I’m forced to watch it drift away but I never, ever, really saw it pop.
When you let go of a balloon, it kisses the sky.
So I kissed you good-bye in hopes you will reach new heights.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
In the elevation of spirit, I am seperated;
Drawn apart from the land-dwellers,
I am propelled into the arms of clouds.
Eagerly embracing my new fate amongst stars,
I rewrite the patterns that form my destiny,
As a god amidst the heavens.
I fabricate new avenues as I venture,
Liberated from the fetters of ground,
I find freedom - escaping to new planes.
My sole duty to self,
Uplifting ego; regal in posture,
I am kept aloft of storms in my flight;
A seer, with third eye opening
To envision silver linings and goals.
And even in my solitude I am connected,
Solar energy soaring through veins,
Spreading wings to swallow sun,
I fly with Nut, drifting in meditation,
Each breath an inhalation of frequencies.
As subtle as Oshun,
I am deity as tranquil as stream,
Unbounded and infinite;
A soul of fire, air, ice and earth.
I am element, atom, and energy,
One with universe, a sound ensemble,
I am cosmic pneuma -
A human.
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 8:50 AM UTC
A four-year-old was perched in front of
a boxy TV with eyes only open to
sugar-coated Cheerios and 80’s Transformer heroes
on the screen.
Fast forward to age
thirteen where she flipped through
dusty photography with
eyes searching
for substance
to prove reality from almost-forgotten dreams.
Scrapbook memories aren’t
all that she sees
because,
honestly,
she loses things.
Summer Saturdays and
Fall Fridays and
Winter weekdays spent too wrapped up in her
own head to notice, silently, spring rising
from its deathbed.
Honestly, she loses things.
She
loses
things that should be important
and real, but all she can feel is
the guilt of lost
and faded photography.
Scrapbook memories fabricate times of
color and scent and sound,
of spilled milk and Diet Coke,
of words too far gone to seep from
pen to page because
honestly,
she loses things.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
I cannot see a path before me,
Nothing but a pestilant haze.
Bathing all resistance,
Hiding hope from my lonely eyes.
You the focus that holds me steady,
I fabricate a story that makes you love me.
Without you there is no reason,
To hang on parched in this dryest of seasons.
Dreaming up the missing mornings,
Filling in the longed for nights,
Your face and voice the origin of my delight.
Every morning alone heart strings tight.
I beg for my own salvation,
Set me free from this beautiful imagination.
Tell me to leave you and no longer love you.
So free and heartbroken,
Drifting like feathers over a seamless ocean.
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 3:43 PM UTC
My lips can no longer hold back.
The muted tones cannot bring out the infinity that hides
discretely
points
to an exit sign.
Certainty waves goodbye. My only function now is to collapse it.
To put the past behind.
The barred doors allow the bottleneck to tighten for a few hours,
but memory has a way of sounding the alarm in the morning
when the early birds rise,
armed with ancient lessons
that remind me they're the ones who are eating well.
I want to come up from the dirt and drink from the well.
My low-life self can no longer heed the worm's advice:
"Sleep all day and you won't get eaten."
Out.
Out with your tepid voice and halfway disposition.
Out with your elevated mind, your profound commitment to the mediocre task
of enlightening the little people.
The empire you fabricate may stay stitched for a while.
But the clothes of emperors always burst at the seams.
A workaholic, addicted to the common
you're winning your converts with tired dreams, vicarious imaginings of those finer roads, well tread by shoes that are not your own.
You don't believe in the masses. Fine. But get the **** off
your throne.
Reciting badly drawn poems at four in the morning
(it could have been worse e.g. I could have wrote "mourning")
looking to insight myself,
not into a passionate frenzy
like Bacchae drunk on the moonlight.
No -- I want piercing red. That's what I want to be.
Want to show the heavens how I use the precious wine.
Sip it.
Out the undulations go.
Sweating out the great myth that time forgets when it flows.
My pagan-witch ego has put me on the hunt for blood tonight,
and the full moon is giving rise to ****** undulations,
washing up teeny-book explanations
of loves once lost.
But I'm far from my being,
and from the infinite ocean.
And the only sound I can hear right now is my one hand clapping at the curtain call,
retiring my broom,
bowing goodbye.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
**Have patience with us.
Have patience with me.**
I am,
like my species,
young.
Naive in mind,
Reckless in heart.
Wild in thought.
Spontaneous in action.
Good and evil are not born from sunlight.
They did not emerge from the soil.
Whether through confusion or fear,
we created it.
**Have patience with us.
Have patience with me.**
We build and oppress ourselves.
Constantly raging violent wars.
Closing and opening wonderful doors.
Heaven and hell
exist
inside of us.
It's our choice which one
spills
into the universe.
Though our history seems so vast
so countless,
we are still
young.
**Have patience with us.
Have patience with me.**
Singing and screaming into a sky full of stars,
hoping that someone will take pity on us,
will understand us.
will guide us.
So far no one has.
So we build our own towers.
Fabricate our own explanations.
Dig our feet in the dirt and defiantly say,
"We know the truth!"
*Forgive us.
We are young.
We know nothing but think we know it all.
I think I know it all, but I know nothing.
I am young.
Forgive me.*
**Have patience with us.
Have patience with me.**
In the quiet vastness,
our planet was born.
We crawled from the sea.
Filled our lungs with oxygen.
Molded our bodies to the craft.
Forged our minds to the art.
Millenias of trial and error,
leading us to this moment.
Never forget.
We are young.
Though cruelty persists,
virtue exists.
Always remember.
We will survive.
We will overcome.
We still have a hopeful spark
in our dying world.
A species of dreamers
whispering into the unknown,
**"Have patience with us.
Have patience me."**
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 9:19 PM UTC
The world is too uncertain for us to be sure of anything. Personally I don't think there is an absolute truth. There I said it. Take me away Nietzsche, I'm with you on this one. We are all so different, all so set apart in our unique, frail and wicked mortality. To have one single frame of existence is debilitating. If this difference is so telling of our humanity then why the hell do we have truth? To what purpose? To contain and unite us despite our individuality? Suppose the truth is given this way: A newborn and a goat are expected to survive with just a small patch of grass. Which of the two gets more chance of survival and existential fulfillment? How can that be when those two are apples and oranges? Their circumstances are so opposite. How is life supposed to be fair to the newborn? I am not saying that life is fair because hell it is far from it. But do we accept that unfair principle or make our lives a little better? Will his happiness be on that grass as well? Of course not. So he looks for new ways to be happy. He has his own truth.
To this end, I have questioned everything from my faith, to myself, to people, to science even. Life grows along with time and so are our realities. This is why these past few months I've been contradicting myself to the point of thinking I've gone mad. But the fact is I've grown from these experiences of letting my two polar opposites meet. It is honestly scary when these inner voices start jabbing at you like pointed needles.I am a walking contradiction and my mind is a maze of paradoxes and questions with no answers. Eventually, I got used to this mentally exhausting activity. When something entirely different from what I believe be it an opinion, an idea, or a controversy) speaks up in my face I've learned to accept them not as the truth but as possibilities that could very well be right or wrong. I will never be always right.
People are so used to the concept of certainty that we have altogether ignored the existence of possibility. Or the gray area to which simply no one end exists. I realized that we are all predisposed to find answers, to hang on to some sort of explanation to a world so phenomenally ungraspable. It is to the detriment of our open mindedness enough for us to fabricate truths which may very well be coverups for the all too universal fear of the unknown. We are afraid of floating in the ambiguous nature of our lives that we'd rather correct this with assumptions.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
Mirrorball - “the fabrication of our performance”
a life long struggle to accept who I am,
of course, lose, and lose again, and
the fabrication of our performance now
inherent in every excuse and mirrorball
revolving asking, no, laughing, at our
vanity, as we endeavor, enabled by the
paucity of ego, the neediness of weakness’s
to catch, keep, hold each single flickering
light spot in our open, slick palms forever
we fabricate our performance of daily living,
modifying our measurements to match output,
only a human cannot wake only to fall within
each daily tabulation without thinking, once:
*I am a hero, worthy of acknowledgement, just
look at my hands! see how many spots of
light I can claim as mine! the mirrorball turns
and turns paying no mind to the worshipers
below, until some sorrowful fool confesses,
fools fail, fools fail, turning the dervish off,
the white flag of ego darkened, once more...*
we are all false poets, false prophets, occasionally confessing
7:34 AM
Sat Jul 18
The Year of the Virus, Corona
Jul 18, 2020
Jul 18, 2020 at 8:03 AM UTC
You got to find a way to live your life
Happy on your own
Love will only work my friend
When you're happy all alone
When you try to base you life
On a fleeting chance at love
You'll find yourself down in a hole
Unable to rise above
Listen to me my friend
I been down that lonely road
Rollin' down
Rollin' down
Rollin' down that lonely road
Rollin' down
Rollin' down
Rollin' down that lonely road
Then I found a way to stop
Lookin' for that little thing
That will fabricate that fallacy
That reality will never bring
And when I stopped to search for love
Love found me instead
It filled my heart and filled my soul
And it fixed my broken head
So listen to me my friend
I been down that lonely road
Rollin' down
Rollin' down
Rollin' down that lonely road
Rollin' down
Rollin' down
Rollin' down that lonely road
There's just one more thing I need to say
So that you'll truly know
You got to find a way, my friend
To shove your demons down below
So if you've put to rest my friend
The seeds that you have sewed
You'll finally find a way to leave
That ****** up lonely road
So listen to me my friend
I been down that lonely road
Rollin' down
Rollin' down
Rollin' down that lonely road
Rollin' down
Rollin' down
Rollin' down that lonely road
I been down
Rollin' down
I been down
Rollin' down
Rollin' down that lonely road
Now I'm off that road
Off that road
Off that road
Off that ****** up, low down, ***** lonely road
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
How do I convey myself in the hobbies I've kept close
How am I supposed to fabricate originality if I keep needing a higher dose
of the drug that keeps waters calm and skies clear
my dear
I feel a storm coming
about noon of every day
thoughts begin constricting in unnoticeable ways
strangling hope and taunting fear
I swear I hear
the scream I can't make
or maybe it's the doubt I couldn't shake
the existence that I fake
or the pieces I let people take
And I'm sorry now for realizing how I made them believe I'm the same
but I'm so wise for my age
I've torn down my own way.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
"You were born to do this."
I reminded myself as I sat there feeling encaged in a flurry of endless thought and emotion.
"Why do I have to feel every aspect of every event of life, so deep?"
I thought as I fought myself once again to simply pick up the pen and drain the overflow of despondency onto paper.
"Breathe."
The words, letters, verbs and thoughts continued to swirl in my ever rampantly unsettled abyss of ideation.
Once I surrendered to the raging of the erupting of the soul..there was calm.
It's likened to the deaf..taken away their ability to sign..The dancer with both feet removed.
Had I no other pleasure but to expel grief, fervor and elation and form them into words to heal the shattering so entrenched..they appear unreachable..I'd beg to be buried with just a writing utensil and endless reams of freshly pressed paper.
"Theres Light."
I mouth that..as I continue to jot as if I were stitching my heart back together with this pen.
Even though I'm within this seemingly grave like cave of aching..I can write.
The beauty is in the creation..The ability to construct, like a carpenter..all that your heart desires with your own two hands..to simply Heal the paragraphs of life that were written badly, write over them or erase and rewrite..if only it were that easy.
I don't aim to undo..I cannot.
Just to poetically fabricate from this point on..allow the stumbles to happen and Love greater than thought fathomable.
Surrender. To the page.
Scribble it out, empty it onto line after line..and crawl atop..until the words fill the fragments and the ink stains your fingertips..Keep climbing upon the proverbial stacks of paper until the towers reach the aperture of the pit.
Creating the mending of affliction, soothing the misery of the choking of words you cannot utter, but you can scratch them onto tablets to deplete the churning of the mind.
Write. Write badly.
Write as if in a mad race to the finish line, then start over again..Until the trails of Letters stretch so long..you could dance upon them for days.
Then Breathe.
Soak every word into your skin as if attempting to heal the afflictions..
then Become it.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
Sometimes when you read a verse
The words hit your soul hard
They make you wonder all night
“How can someone fabricate such a piece of art?”
The feeling each syllable holds
Gets carved into your heart
Words inspiring you to weave some of your own
Which might cause the ordinary populace to feel your warmth
With excitement flooding
You pick the quill only to wonder
Would your quill succeed in
Re-creating the magic
You recently witnessed?
You drop the quill
Not because of self-doubt
But because you just know
That some magic tricks only belong
With svelte magicians
And sometimes you yield sweet joy
In being touched by others
Just witnessing greatness…
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC
(i)
To **** a mockingbird,
Is a sin,
Like holding a full bloomed rose by its neck and snapping it,
(ii) To **** a mockingbird,
Is a sin,
They have eyes that reflect like diamonds,
Churned with the rarest shade of indigo and the tiniest bit of white,
They have warm hands and dainty wrists,
Their bones are fragile,
Their knees bruise easily,
Hair sways like a golden storm,
(iii)The mockingbird,
Hums tunes they hear,
They don't fabricate any of their own,
They're an open book,
A page everyone knows will not hurt with its words, (iv) But we wait,
Wait for the worst to drown everything innocent we have,
Watch as the mockingbird is painfully murdered,
As we pick up their weight in tiny coffins on our chests,
Shamelessly,
And then quote again,
" it is a sin to **** a mockingbird "
#SaveSyria
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
The dexterity of created complexity,
to at which rate what we ponder--
to fabricate or conceal,
which is harder?
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
it's the only way to make myself believe,
the only way i can make this feel real
pleasure over matter.
the only aspect of romantic love that i can fabricate on my own.
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 10:45 PM UTC
As the halo icicles melt
From the slender fingers of the trees,
They reassemble themselves
As sharp shards throughout my hair
And make me feel enshrined
In the Snow Queen’s palace;
Although slightly confused
As to whether her spell has worked on me.
For rage bubbles up inside of me
Like the volcanic lava of Vesuvius
As I carefully remove the icicles from my hair
And attempt to reassemble them
Into miniature castles,
Under the Queen’s command.
But then once the Vesuvius of my mind
Erupts,
Innocent soapy bubbles float out
And children shriek with laughter
Leaving Pompeii safe from harm.
But the ancient people worry anyway
Since historically-speaking,
Molten lava is scheduled to surface.
Should I then worry?
It hasn’t yet singed my pores
But rains have attempted to fabricate themselves.
Yet something has managed to hold them back.
I am not so grateful.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
I just hurt everyone
I fabricate false truths like art
I weave them together like threads in a tapestry
A kind of poisonous performance art
I steal others ideas and use them as mine
Upon an alter I sacrifice friends to the abyss
And for what?
Who knows why
Long ago has my fire burned out
Its last sparks disappearing as I write
Too young am I
To cloud over with the sorrows of my past
My possible futures I’ve given up
Just to cry
Stuck like a record player
I repeat the same mistakes
I repeat the same mistaks
I repeat the same misaks
I repeat the same mstks
I repeat the same mstk
I repeat the same mtk
I repeat the same mk
I repeat the same m
until there are no more to repeat
and those that loved me
leave me
I fall in spiral
Endlessly into an infinite hole
Unable to stop
Yet it is me
I am killing myself
I can’t live like this anymore
But I know I will
No matter what anyone says
The last sparks of hope,
That used to blaze
An inferno in my eyes and soul
Mind and body,
Have died
lies
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
If it shames you,
If it shocks you,
If no one ever cared enough
To brave it through for you,
If that's not how it was done-
Then run.
Shirk responsibilities,
Hold on to old hostilities,
Ensure a future
For your daughter
Full of mistakes you've already made.
Do not grace her with faith,
Do not bestow your care upon her-
Let her think it was never there.
Cigarettes, alcohol,
Heartache, adolescence
Just ************ and
Regular flirtations and relationships-
Don't tell her to say no.
Just make sure she knows
They're unforgivable, all of them;
(Make sure she knows both shades that life can offer,
Raise her awareness of the wonderful choice
Between white and black.)
Fabricate the pretense that in this 21st century
She'll never come across them, not once.
Tell her that safe *** is not
Something she should know about
Because she will just not do it
Ever, period
And experimentation with substances and heck,
Even with people, are crimes
That only criminals commit.
And she will learn despite you.
And she will do things to spite you,
And one day, she'll grow old enough to hate you
And she won't care or feel the need
To explain her side of things
Because she will find happiness in her way
And she will have survived long enough
To have learned how to cut you from her heart.
And she won't even have to see you,
And the day will come
When you've become
Just a subject of her art.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
a crooked ugly man walked up
and said "all hope is spent
i'll build a wall and save you all
and be your president
believe me, i can cure all ills
and make all merkins proud
if you'll just take this oil of snake
i sell to every crowd
for any lie becomes the truth
if you but scream it thrice
so plant the seed then others bleed
and you don't pay the price
come spend your vote to buy my line
of prejudice and hate
ignore the churl of all the world
we'll make our nation great"
a machinating woman comes
the way her husband went
"i've done no crime i'm next in line
to be your president
you see how he goes off the rails
and nothing said is true
i can't shoot straight, i fabricate
but never lie to you
lost last time when set to win
this time did what i can
and worked my scut to undercut
an inconvenient man
we're dealing from the bottom, folks
the country's gone to ***
i may not be the best there is
but i'm the best you've got"
so laugh about it, shout about it,
when you've got to choose
your **** is hoist on Hobson's choice
the poison or the noose
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC