"fabricated" poems
Today for the first time in quite awhile,
upon my face grew a genuine smile.
It wasn't fabricated, it was honest and true
and when reality hit me I was left feeling blue.
I was so surprised, it was hard to even speak.
How long had it been? A month or a week?
My smile had faded as quickly as it grew,
but I know it'll be back the next time I think of you.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
You choose a sepia filter
To match your timeless visage
To match the clothes you've wandered into today
But it is not a selfie.
Your eyes pierce them through their iPhone screens
Your smile is casually not directed towards anyone in particular
Your outfit is recklessly on point
And it is not a selfie.
It is a punch in the gut
to everyone who has ever
said you are not good enough.
It is not a selfie.
The wings by your eyes will go out of style.
The dye in your hair will wash down the drain.
The clothes will wear out and you will take pictures again.
But you have fabricated a moment.
You are smiling towards yourself.
Slap your image onto every social media you know
Next to the supermodels and Kardashians and words of self hatred
This is the fulcrum with which you will lever the world.
This is not a selfie.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
Fabricated.
Fictitious.
A fake floating feeling
Falls short
Of my fleeting fantasy.
This insidious infirmity
Isn't what I intended.
I've been inflicted
With internal indisposition.
In need of an ideal identity.
Who am I without
This ****** to make me whole?
How do I heave my heart
Away from this hole?
Have you seen how hard this is?
But it's been short of a year,
Of believing I can simply be.
And before I break
Bleed me of my bane.
And for me, bear no malice.
Tightly take me
Away from my terible tempest.
Time tells me it's time to stop.
Too long I've tortured my tenemet.
Tame the tantrum tearing through me.
Sober seems strong,
But it's systematic survival.
Stopping the surrender
To something stimulating.
Learning to stand sedated.
No I'm no longer numb.
No longer neglecting my need
For new novcane.
Knowing I'll never need
This vaccine again.
You are all my ambition.
Dispelling my ailments
And afflictions.
I am hard to adore, I know.
You are my new addiction.
You have me dreaming,
Praying we are real.
Made me feel.
Don't decieve my brittle belief.
Keep me, don't leave.
I'm not the kind to fly.
For you i'd try to dive.
Unafraid I might die.
I don't hide from the night.
This is what I've been trying to find.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished.
Like us, a draft
of what can be called
"the both of us."
A draft created
that's open for change.
A change
to be better
---better
than who we are
or what we are
in the midst of the conflict
that floats around us
for the sake of us
for the both of us
---for each other.
A change
to be smoother
---smoother
with no mistakes,
with everything
in order;
consistent,
and coherent
even with the dialogues
we say that matter.
A change
to be clearer
---clearer,
meaning it is
at least what it is
meant to be conveying
with no underlying
vague wordings
when it comes
to our feelings
---for one another.
But that's there all is:
a draft
of what could be called
the both of us;
a product
of what we can become
if we make it become;
a product
of the possibilities
of what can be us,
of what might be us,
of what is it between us
between the fragments
of the words,
the lines,
and the series
of all of them
that constantly paint
faint descriptions of us,
descriptions
created [fabricated]
in my mind
like a work of fiction,
of pure imagination.
Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished,
like the poems
I wrote for us;
like the poems
about us;
like us, a draft.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
Thin and transluscent
Fabricated sheet
Clumsy piece
Tickling with every groove
Of the winter's breeze.
Its flow was a mirror of her aura
Of her external beauty
Of how fierce she was
Every time she exposes her curves.
Her fake smile was a frown
She was tore apart from her soul
For who she was
A manequin by herself.
(7/2/14 @xirlleelang)
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
The fault of our reality is not written in our stars
And it will not dance across unfavorable constellations,
Or dissolve into inconsolable fragments.
The fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.
But how fortunate would it be?
To cast the providence of our unlucky affairs
Into the gloomy twilight,
Where the sky is so unilluminated
That we could close our restful eyes
And fathom a world where it does not exist?
But the fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.
We are heavily folded sheets of stationary:
A collection of utterances
Bound into melancholy novels
By our mangled hearts,
And though spoken words
Still fall onto my turning pages
As tears do fall from my reddened cheeks,
I have yet to forget
The chapter you have left unwritten,
Because an unwritten chapter is one to be adorned:
It cannot end
For it does not exist.
And so we fumble through an amorous affliction,
Fabricated into a bittersweet infinity.
And at midnight,
When my restless fingers
***** the empty air for you,
And the reality of our desolate fault
Seeps into my hands,
I wish you were here.
But the fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.
j.s.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
He looks like a rasta
Preaches no money only peace
But smokes no ****
He’s been sober all his life
Like he just got out of rehab
But doesn't mind if his friends smoke a couple trees
He breaks it down like a b-boy
That might of known Michael Jackson
Then belts out American country music
In the heart of Africa
Designs fashion making Europeans wonder
If they should colonize Africa again to get his resources.
Neo-colonization anyone?
He has small money
He lives poor
But lives rich
Has his own humble home
Like the adult he’s been since 15
And loves helplessly like he’s still 15
Despite the bruises the world continues to lash on his never aging soul.
Ohhh
Those bruises must hurt
But he’s trying to heal them with his art
He is an anomaly
Doesn’t fit here or there
But anomalies are perfectly normal
They choose to sit in there soul
Release truth that needs to be told
Because it’s only natural
Not fabricated
The fabricated
Really hates it.
The fabricated
Still takes a taste of it
Because they want that
Freedom
The fabricated
Watch in awe
They say no
You aren’t allowed to do that
That’s a contradiction
You’re a paradox
Social lines wont let you cross that.
Get back in line
Get back in line
Before we shoot you
Because we want your freedom too.
He’s been shot a couple times
I think his soul is his armor
But he lives in a human body
So you can imagine he’s not all that bullet proof.
Even if his body dies one day
I swear his soul will live on.
His freedom has no expiration date.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 3:41 AM UTC
WHEN Grace Gray uncovered her wedding dress from the back of the wardrobe, she knew exactly what to do with her something old – turn it into something new.
The doting gran gifted her much-loved satin gown to her daughter Michelle, so she could have it made into a christening robe for her baby Pippa.
And the beautiful wee girl was all smiles on her special day in her hand-me-down, upcycled gown.
Michelle, 32, said: “I always loved my mum’s wedding dress and never imagined it would become my daughter’s christening dress, but I’m so glad it did.
“For Pippa to be christened in such a special family dress made the day all the more amazing.”
Grace, 54, wore the pearl-encrusted ivory dress when she married husband William, 73, in Clydebank 18 years ago.
Michelle helped her mum to pick the dress and was a bridesmaid at the wedding.
She said: “I was quite young when my mum married my stepdad and I remember going shopping with her when she picked the dress.
“It had lots of pearls and diamantes and I just loved all the sparkle. She looked so beautiful.”
After her wedding, Grace packed away her dress in a box and kept it at the back of her wardrobe.
Michelle, who is looking forward to her own wedding to partner Frazer Ward, 29, next year, said: “It has been there ever since but she came across it when she was clearing out.
“It was her idea to have it turned into a christening dress for Pippa.”
The family took the dress to Fabricated Bridal Alterations in Glasgow, where the seamstresses made not only the christening dress but a head band for Pippa and a matching hair clip for her sister Tilly, four.
Michelle, who also lives in Clydebank, added: “I did feel a little bit anxious at the thought of mum’s
dress being cut up but the end result was so beautiful.
“Mum had a tear in her eye when she saw it.”
Grace said: “I can’t think of any better use of my wedding dress than seeing it given to my
granddaughter for her christening.
“I felt really honoured to share in her big day in such a special way. I was overwhelmed by how beautiful she looked.”
Andrina Greig, of Fabricated Bridal Alterations, said there was a rising trend for women to put their wedding dresses to good use.
She added: “We’ve had more and more women getting their wedding dresses made into a christening gown for their children – but this is the first time we have had a grandmother’s dress brought in to be made into a christening gown.
“Michelle’s mum’s dress was perfect for the transformation.
“It was in great condition and the beading, bow and button details were ideal for scaling down and keeping as a feature on the christening dress. We were thrilled with how beautiful Pippa’s gown looked.”
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
Kindly tell the sun to look away
I don’t want to see my curtain sway
Indeed, because these fabricated joys
Are demolished by an obscure ray
Serve me breakfast while the day
Lies as cold as the dew I’ll drink
Now what to do is just obey
Before we are rued by fire’s blink
Put my hot tea beside the lake
Serve it dead and withered
The day is boiling and we’ll be late
For we are but a paper scrapped
The fireplace shall be planted
With torn thorns of brown and black
No rays of red will favor me
As long as the sun scorns at us
Wipe my mouth with torn fabric
It pains me so to be stained in red
That I long ago forsaken but now
Dripping down my crooked neck
For the ghost of you who preyed
On my solitary beat of ill and ****
For your revenant who feasted
On my will and half-eaten heart
For the glooms of your fairy
Schadenfreude upon my sorry
For the life I did not live
To the joy I took from you
Raise the cup and shatter it
Open the curtain and drain our life of lies
To the eye of the day and God’s pity
Serve my breakfast before I live
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
The white line races past
My eyes steady and try to cast
Everything blurs and ties
Even the horizon can fool the wise
we were the ones pushed and shun
Architects pieces crumbled and done
This can only be nature’s pun
dream of screams and cry for lies
Who’s destined to fall and die
Who’s pulled and dragged for the climb
Only darkness from the sun
All our hearts weigh a ton
Changing the world
after the initial twirl
All our sources are drained
If everybody is blamed
How can we redeem and claim?
When our traces are sought
and when everything is lost
We stayed and what was the cost?
Through mistrust, and our father’s guns
all that is left is the fabricated sun
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 9:41 AM UTC
Winters can be tedious.
Sun dips into early dusk.
A dead fire refuses to ignite.
There's a quick repetition
of opening and closing blinds
over a barred window.
In need of reflection
I search a familiar face
in an unfamiliar landscape.
I have her in my grasp,
half illusion, half real,
a symbolic mask denies
her true face,
her glittering crown
divides us by its radiance.
Groping in darkness,
I stumble over objects
of wood and stone,
my unsteady tread tripping
over their contours.
I light a candle.
Bathed in amber light,
our shadows merge.
A new door opens,
stretching the perspective.
No formal borders here,
they wouldn't survive
the present climate.
In their place,
intricately carved
figureheads and totems-
a vision of the past.
My eye is a camera,
retinas branded with imagery
for the photographer's delight-
coloured pebbles, carved wooden animals,
tin cans, bones.....
....A Glass Sentinel
(though she isn't visible)
I can see right through her-
a vision of smokescreens
and subterfuge.
Past stumps of driftwood,
past the uncut grass,
a few flowers...
...to the fabricated backdrop
of a burning house, black smoke
rising
in
a
thin
stream.
At the open door -
The Guardian,
(I know her inside out)
unmoved,
(she didn't bat an eye)
defiant in a new skin,
a softer version-
The Mother protecting her children,
arms splayed, prepared
for fight or flight.
A russet flame
Licking her spine exhales
'Get out of my way!'
but she wasn't listening.
Smile fixed,
eyes of a phoenix,
a lion,
a raptor,
protector.
We all need feeding,
but not this way!
Throw me a cloth,
a napkin,
a man-size tissue
a lifeline!
She wanted this,
no, wished it-
this symbolism,
this burning of ironic portraits,
to clear the deck,
make way for new.
It shook the house,
its fate sealed behind closed doors.
I compose myself,
pull her back from the perilous edge,
gather her in my arms.
Fragments of shattered words
flutter in the ether.
What is real?
What is fiction?
A carbon copy of thousands?
A charred corner?
A forgotten candle?
WARNING:
'Eating fire' is a risky business
but can attract a large audience.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
Somewhere, there is a labyrinth, where people wander around and around, suffering,
Unwilling contestants of a cruel game, where the
Winner doesn't live to tell the tale—to claim the prize. It is
Wicked and unrelenting. The wardens of this
Prison are ruthless, indiscriminately casting their victims into the labyrinth,
Just to see what they're made of.
Around and around they go, trying to get out of
This endless ring of suffering,
Trying to regain control of their lives from this
Monstrous power. They search to find out where the end is,
Around and around, bewildered marionettes, hugging the
Walls, as cold as death. But they cannot find the exit to this labyrinth.
They cry out and curse this labyrinth
Of suffering. They don't want to know what they're made of.
They want to stop the agony and the suffering.
"Around and around is not the answer to this,"
They finally cry like hungry animals, "Straight and fast is."
And so they go, straight and fast, to break away from the
Horrors they're frantically attempting to escape. The
Frigid walls, stretching endlessly upward, collapse as they blast through the labyrinth
Like siege engines. Around and around their heads, like drunken birds, images of
Their lives whirl by. Desperate to put an end to their sweat and suffering,
These prisoners blindly race toward the light in the distance. But this
Solution does not completely end the suffering. That's not how the labyrinth is.
Look around you. What you see is
Filled with raging fists, starving mouths, and the
Cries of those drowning in their own suffering.
This world is a world of
Recurring pain, winding around and around like a labyrinth.
Look around you and answer me: What is this?
This
Is
The
Labyrinth
Of
Suffering.
We all are stuck suffering, flies in a web. We imagine ourselves escaping, hiding this
Bleak present under a fabricated future, but the labyrinth does not begin or end. It just is.
So around and around we go. Welcome to the labyrinth. Let's see what you're made of.
May 30, 2011
May 30, 2011 at 9:21 AM UTC
The eyes just stare, those two black *****
from the fabricated sockets of a lifeless doll.
As if it sleeps entranced in place,
with an eerie glance from its porcelain face.
Shivers creep beneath the skin,
at this creepy toy's disturbing grin.
Hearts are stopped at the sudden shock,
when it blinks its eyes and starts to talk.
Jul 24, 2021
Jul 24, 2021 at 4:10 AM UTC
Liner runs thin
as I examine the skin
where I look for a tell-tale mark
Left of a ring that would prove
I'm not alone.
(it's not there)
My back arches and
my body quakes
as deep inside
Infantile sexuality wakes
as my lips let fly
assumed and guessed sighs
of fabricated pleasure
(whatever that is)
They did not teach me these things
I was left to assume
as hearts often do
when they are kept in a room
and ushered away from the pains and joys
of Love
I stare into a mirror
and I stare back
Until all of a sudden
my smile cracks
and I'm left to stare
into the eyes of one
born to lose.
I hug warm pillows
and stroke my own hair
Until I realize he
is not
wasn't
and will never be there
and I'm left to assemble
a Shattered Glass Heart
with nothing but hammers for tools
But then I see myself
beauty and flaws defined
and at this point I know
the only glass heart I need
is mine
even in pieces, it retains it's strength
and waits to be whole again
So dormant I sit
mesmerized by the prisms the pretty pieces make
as I wait
for a true artist to come
and give this
Shattered Glass Heart
new form
with the heat of reassuring and shared existence
and the grace of gentle words and sweet kisses.
Jun 27, 2011
Jun 27, 2011 at 12:03 PM UTC
I'm sorry
If I woke you up last night
My pen told me secrets in whispers
And I carved scars and tales
Of silly incantations and
old fallen trees
Of silver days in summer breeze
and tattered amber sundresses
Of apple bites and ripe grapes
near the broken glass on the carpet; they decayed
Ashes danced on my lips; sculpting poems on my skin
and flicking cigarette on my wounds
Smudged mascara and dulcet memories
Leather fabricated journals of vintage times
hiding crisp carcasses of yellow daises
Euphonious chortles and
early morning smiles
Forgotten tea leaves in the teapot
and ginger bread turning cold
Sun rays, like gold dust, sparkling in the air
Through the tall trees of a forest
hanging on the clouds in despair
First day of Spring, magical it is
like a caterpillar's fate
Silky cocoon, shiny chrysalis,
emerging out as a butterfly
Leaving as old and embracing the new
Igniting the sky over my purple roof
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 6:07 AM UTC
Ordnance of the wealthy, corrupt
Sculpting the public image.
Garnishing with admiration, cloaking gall.
Mass ****** and grand larceny
Have to, in some way, come clean in the books.
Money is fabricated out of thin air.
Know that you don’t know anything.
When debt is created, pockets are lined
This is the white way in a dark world.
When the receipts are missing, the cash is stashed.
Black must then become white for the sake of tax.
All of this ultimately boils down to charity.
Deplorable or reliable, evil or honest
Easiest way to wash the attic and eyes of the tax officers.
Feigning effigies and respect in the face of media
As they donate to those they’ve stolen from with a hearty smile.
Neither will recognize, but be eternally grateful the other exists.
Just another excuse to wake up in the morning and not feel awful.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
To all the crushes.
Hey! How are you doing?
Shhh! don't answer.
I know you're good;
you always were.
That's why I fell for you
in the first place.
We don't know each other.
*You don't know me.
You don't have to.
trust me; fine, don't.
I owe you,
for all the butterfiles,
and the clicks in my knees.
I admit I am not romantic.
I am in fact dull as a dust,
but I have never found it hard,
to praise you, or compliment your existence.
Like your enchanting eyes
or as I like to call them
“The black hole phenomena”
as they could capture time,
never to let it go;
Or the radiant smile
fabricated by your perfectly carved teeth.
But I chose to not talk about it,
as it has been clichéd
by many great poets.
Remeber everytime you caught me staring
and I made it look like I was not?
Such a great actor I am,
you gotta admit this.
I always thought you had a slight clue.
Meh! It doesn't matter anymore.
And If you ever find about me
(I know you won't),
Just don't feel bad, or sad
(I know you won't).
Believe me,
If the knot in my throat had allowed,
I wouldn't be writing this. Instead,
I would be singing this in my crocodile voice,
as I then had not cared about anything, or anyone.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 3:37 AM UTC
We waste our lives
chasing some false ideology
of what it means to be beautiful
dressing ourselves up
in the latest paper doll clichés
of magazine quotes
of how to look like a “10”
hoping to see something
other than our own reflection
in the mirror
hoping that a layer
of white washed lies
and vibrant coats painted
over fabricated truths
will somehow make us feel...
how do they say it
on the West Side?
“I feel pretty and witty and...”
isn’t it somewhere around here
that the truth gets lost
where we allow the definition of beauty
to get painfully distorted
that we hand over our paychecks
and self-esteem
for the latest cure and concealer
to that ugly feeling
we get when we are left by ourselves
to face the doubts of our truths
and what is that truth?
how was beauty defined
before we had a vocabulary of deception
before we danced to radio jingles
and sang along with our self doubts
what did beauty look like
when it was out there
alone in the dark
what was it that was beautiful
before we opened our eyes...
what was beautiful then
is still the same
as what is beautiful now...
and it is nothing we can define
with our words
or our books
or the noises we make when we speak
it is nothing we can see
with our eyes
it is as simple
as it is easy
it is there inside all of us
beneath our clothes
and inside our skin
and protected by our bones
and our marrow
living and blooming
every time we exhale
and every time we inhale
the truth of what it means
to be beautiful
is in just
being
and this truth is sung
with every beat of our hearts
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
Her bed was
fashioned
into a grave
Her blanket
was fabricated
out of dirt
And now her
sleep is calm
as a wave
She rests in a
place where she’ll
never be hurt
©
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 7:41 AM UTC
You stripped my soul,
Ripped me from my shoes
Where I stood
in innocence.
You extracted my childlike traits,
Treated my body
As your ********* paycheck.
My whole future
Was laid out in front me.
Now you fabricated a dent in it,
One that has shattered me
Forever.
I used to smile,
Be full of life,
Slept at night,
My body never reeked the incessant scent
of the lifeless souls you sold me to.
My heart ached everyday,
I longed for home, where safety was waiting for me.
Everyday I was a raindrop,
Trying to cling onto the window of hope,
But always slipped away.
You don’t understand the pain,
You’re only in it for the hunnits
Please understand,
That my dehumanization is not worthy
For what you gain.
My body became an abstract canvas,
For your ugly pleasures.
Bruised, bloodied, beaten, and battered.
Cuts and aches line my delicate skin,
But to you all my pain is fake.
You slapped my delicate face,
every time I asked for my precious prize of my childhood,
every time clear oceans surged out of my eyes.
“Shut the hell up!” You yelled
As I let out wails of agony.
You stepped all over me
Like I was a used cigarette.
You ignored my shrieking screams,
Actually,
You loved it.
You forced me
To comply with their beastly gratifications,
Only in return for your abundant riches.
You stepped on me,
like I was a ***** grimy, muddy puddle,
over and over
Even so,
I was still considered desirable.
I am NOT your canvas.
I am NOT your paycheck.
I am NOT your plaything.
I am worthy of honor,
worthy of respectful awe and delicacy.
I did not feel the worth of a human being anymore.
I felt ill treated, broken, bent, demeaned.
You stripped my soul, and,
Deprived me of my self respect.
And I will never
Ever
Be the same.
The only thought
That seeps into my mind
At sunrise and the brink of midnight,
Is that
I
Was someone’s *****
Listen to the pleas of
Children,
their ribbons shriveling up.
Spouses,
their vows rupturing.
Siblings,
their hearts torn apart.
Parents,
Bawling for their sanities,
Waiting to rejoice
With their miraculous bundles of joy—
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 11:13 AM UTC
The difference between my darkness and your darkness is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence, while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet. The difference between my sins and your sins is that when I sin I know I'm sinning, while you have actually fallen prey to your own fabricated illusions. I am a siren, a mermaid; I know that I am beautiful while basking on the ocean's waves and I know that I can eat flesh and bones at the bottom of the sea. You are a white witch, a wizard; your spells are manipulations and your cauldron from hell yet you wrap yourself in white and wear a silver wig.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
there is little substance in
affinity marked by proximity.
it is no true measure of
commitment or loyalty but
merely a constant exchange
of fabricated facades. such
is the folly of friendship.
whether nature ever
actually achieved compassion,
it has surely since been corrupted.
emotionally encapsulated,
acting as if not to
affect those in the
evading environment.
selfish must have proven
more efficient than selfless.
the superiority of self priority
and depraved self devotion.
still it doesn't seem sufficient,
at least not to me.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:35 AM UTC