"fabricating" poems
I am the entourage
Of a fantastic mirage
I am the agent
Of my mind's figment
I am a believer
Of mythical creatures
I am a builder
Of splendid architecture
I am a drunkard
Tripping on futures so absurd
I plan construction
Of my own destruction
I am the feeder
To dreams of grandeur
I am a magician
Of wild, potent concoctions
I am a tycoon
Of emotional typhoons
I am an adept
Skilled in exploiting concepts
I am a parasite
Brandishing fangs that bite
I play host
To a monstrous, hideous ghost
I am an addict
Of thoughts derelict
I am the dreamer
Incapable of anything lesser
I am a diver
Sinking deeper and deeper
I am an insatiable thief
Claiming trophies without grief
I am an emotional hermit
Hoarding my all in a bottomless pit
I am a weaver
Fabricating tales that meander
I am a Neanderthal
Adopting behaviours and habits that appall
I am an ape
Mending wounds that gape
I am but me
I'm blind, fighting to see
I am rhymesmith
I lie through my teeth
Getting hard to breathe
Heart to words, I seethe...
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
Syria
**** the adults, save the children"
Plea of parents from war torn Syria
Children being killed for 'throwing stones'
Parents dying from broken hearts
Worlds most immoral army
Fabricating the deaths of men, women
Young, and old
The world is quiet oh so quiet
There are humans but no humanity
A word known as justice
But nobody here to deliver it
The world is a cruel place
None will speak until its them that suffer :(
Why is it so hard to let each other live in peace?
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 12:16 PM UTC
allocation of supreme alliteration illustrates perpetual contemplation and concentration that dictates a maligned mastication of federal incarceration of elongated complementary probation leaving you cuffed and based on baseless accusations conducted in aboriginal abbreviations masked task force concluding a course of brevity conducted in coordination then coordinating and copulating condemnation for a homeostasis of thought bought scolded eroded and shot inefficacy perpetrating cultural holocaust irrelevance somersaults galactic static of mathematical bombastic smack addict glued shut in a craft attic floral resurrection gartered section of ****** selection she moves fluid through unaltered perfection of cosmic bypass past the point of extemporaneous infinitude reciprocating fortitude of sinews congregating fabricating visuals of vitality soldering axonal membranes on the cerebellum and cortex simulation of sensual vortex demented fusion more blessed I am that which stands to understand the incomprehensible unconsidered options of racial conflicts the screaming round of unaltered copper fiber severing life from the living only now can we debunk the years
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
Always saying I love you, baby.
But they’ve only been together a day.
Captivated by the way the
Darkness of each other’s pupils grow
Every time they touch.
Forcing the kind of relationships, but more of the
Groping, that they saw in the movies.
Heated make out sessions in the church youth room, with
Intensity that could make strippers blush.
Juxtaposing every inch of their bodies.
Knowing what to do only because of what they
Learned in health class. Trying to
Master the art of *** and what they call love,
Not caring who knows. Living off each
Other’s breaths. Fabricating
Plans and stories for their parents when they’re caught
Quietly sneaking back into their
Rooms at four in the morning,
Shutting their doors and their eyelids,
Tracing remnant goose bumps.
Until the sun shines into their windows,
Violating their dreams of Cinderella and Prince Charming,
Washing the night from their skin, and shoving their
****** memories to the back and hiding them in a drawer.
Yearning to be touched again, by whom ever the next
Zephyr can blow into their neighborhood.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
Stitched into this sac of skin at birth.
That fused to your bones
Fabricating a narcotic seamless facade
We pluck at the seams, with crude claws.
Laboring to unravel the lace seams
In vain
Whirling, flickering, suffocating nausea aimed at
Misuse of our pronouns of
Our echoing repulsive abnormal figure.
Funding a doctor to shed our skin.
Mutilating skin and bone to perfection.
For self-acceptance.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 6:58 PM UTC
i.
The atlantian theorists, of the Masonic order,
Wanted a new world, ****** indigenous quarter's;
They came by their ship's, to conceal native truth's,
Only coming for a plunder, to giveth satanic rule.
ii.
The warrior-painted faces, naturally painted by ash and red,
Sawest their shores, being broken by it's door's; mad-men in
Shiny silver, hand's open, yet were fed. Sachem prophet's
Bellowed the harbinger's long afore, now all hast come, these
aborigines weren't dumb; they prophesied this long before.
iii.
The wigwams, longhouses, teepees and lodges, were uprooted from their sacred ground's, the creator's meek were ravaged; as giant bones were taken while found. As hidden beneath the surface, the haut monde made none sound; playing dumbed with Gun's, they ran their fun, fabricating lies, under the America's sun. As tis they gave the world alibi's to be one, O' what hath they done; O' what hath they done.
iv.
First the viking, with dragon ship thunder
came to conquer,pillage and plunder
taking lives without a thought
unwary of the cruelty they wrought.
v.
Then pilgrim's progress seeking new land
would have starved if not for the "savage" man
onward, westward, did they go
killing for profit, pleasure little did they know.
vi.
Grandfather, earth mother and spirit of wild
they watched as the white eye usurped the child
and still, no lesson has been learned
the people grew fat, their culture spurned.
vii.
Most of the tribes are gone away
and America has come to stay
but in my native heart i yearn
to see the Indian nation return.
©Brandon Nagley \Wolfspirit duo poem
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Indigenous harbinger's revealed
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
The oppression hangs stiff and unrelenting
And the sincerity comes off too awkward and from left field
I just want to move, but all I can accomplish are twitches in different directions
You're talking at me, not with me
And I'm close to fabricating an elaborate story to put you in shut down mode so that I can continue on my day
I don't care about your message
I'm not buying your book, I'm not reading your pamphlet, and I'm not joining your group.
I'm eating a ******* burrito,*** and that's IT.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 8:15 PM UTC
This is the kind of the night
where I can see the constellations bright
wishing to see the reflections of their light
directly from your beady eyes
Feeling the light breeze on my ear
pretending that it was you
whispering close to me
knotting the words 'I love you'
Not a single day goes by
without you in my imagination
the thoughts of your smile
resembling sunbeams in the summer
Know that we are looking at the same sky
just without your hand in mine
without your head on my chest
without you is just where I am
I close my eyes, for the million times
feigning that the distance is not real
fabricating the idea of just us
staring and kissing into the end of the night
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
Figures standing in my peripheral
With eyes like the void, paralyzing me
Illusions fade to reality now
Drift into the nightmarish miasma
I thrash to no avail
Fighting to escape their dead gaze
Evading my vision
Silhouettes flicker in the dark
Dancing in the pitch black dead of night
Hallucinations of aberrations
Whispering in the back of my mind
Manifestations of apparitions
Phantoms fabricating
Horror permeating my core
Nocturnal terror
Haunting my soul
Manic visions plaguing
Every fiber of my being
Panicked and screaming
Please God save me
Perchance a dream
Facade of reality
Stuck on repeat
I can't tell the difference
Falling into darkness
Hopeless to escape
Painting a bleak
foreboding dreamscape
Minds eye collapsing to oblivion
This existence consumed by shadows
Trapped in this enigmatic consciousness
My perception fleeting through the night
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
Truth enamored of itself...based upon
the forever following.
Flow's entrails--the
seven circuit labyrinth pends the
recollection that yielded it.
Thus, the unsound voice pouring
voicelessness.
Minotaur's digestive sound bite.
Where Once, as only Once allotted
the victor of Truth.
As told, as held...now confounds
with a self-fabricating prophesier,
profaning all telling.
Disconsolate swipes of emotion
make and remake the barren.
Pray tell the lessening visage of thee,
where by and by shall deem thee
bygone.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
Placing the bandaid
on top of the next.
Placating my irrational thoughts,
but all so fleeting.
I'm happy. Then...
the wounds peak through,
I know these outside influences
whether drugs or relationships won't hold up
in the ultimate goal -
the real happiness quantifier.
That happiness
Beautiful soulful careless laughter
Give me that happiness.
Sing and dance,
but not at the expense of my lungs and kidneys.
Talk about something you know
For you.
Intrinsically fascinating,
Not fabricating lies based on ideas
for Others to like you.
Stop pleasing others for their expense.
Please yourself through ridding
Yourself of dense
Self pitying thoughts and
Push-over tendencies
Rejection fearing
and Stop baring these heavy suicidal thoughts.
Learn
To appreciate your worth,
You have a gift of
Kindness, intelligence, mindfulness.
I love myself
Or at least I'm learning to
and the healthy way.
By myself.
And I won't ask your opinion, is that okay?
Yeah I'm still learning.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
The spoken language of my indigenous tongue is unfamiliar with composing a complex signature of words. I am a justly man who only possess a singular thought at a time and my current thought comes unto me gravely. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
My evangelizing does not bound a union between a man and amen. Those fabricating words I once preached are as false as fish on grass. A paradox forms within myself. I am structured alike the absolute truth but I surely lie a fact. But I can no longer carry a deceit intention. Fool’s gold was at the end of the rainbow. And like a loyal dog, I followed with a wagged tail.
I believe hindsight is merely useless, now. I attest to seek truth as it appears but my eyes are blind with fury. I mistakenly remembered that vision is of faith rather than sight. I become a precise and selective balloter. I either speak its erroneousness existence upon them or become a subject of harsh matters.
The genesis Armageddon is occurring. Man falls to a higher sky because the mind of the body cannot outthink its own thought; therefore, it is the last transcendence. I kneel in solidarity amid the row of pews. Peace, be steel. For it will all cease, follow by a great calm.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
I wore a light blue dress the day you kissed me and every day after to prove that I was in love. I had floral patters around my waist so I could twirl around for you and show you the life inside of my heart.
You squeezed my hand as if every letter of their vows was your silent message to me. Red. We wore red. It took me six months for me to let that dress go, and I swear to God I never felt as beautiful as when the rain poured around us that day.
I wore a black dress for you with ribbons down my spine but every touch snagged the lace and it's starting to hardly cover me spelling only your name across my hips and my sides. Those dresses were the most appropriate for the days I let you take me. Sheer silk laid across the small of my back. I saw an inviting place for your palms but you only saw the zipper.
How fitting is it that I wore a fitted blue dress to my first real date after we gave up (exactly one year, two months and nine days). The same dress we made love in. The first time you did not tell me you loved me after.
A tan dress just like our skin in the summer. I let a you touch me naked and I've never felt fully clothed ever since. Not even the sleeves and loose skirt of my dress could hide the scars no matter how many times I twirled around for someone new.
I wore a polka-dot dress the first time you touched me inappropriately. I remember it being hot out. I wish I wore something else. November 1st, 2013. You would not even look at me after we became one, never mind talk to me.
On Sundays I wore white dresses to feel innocence again. I never failed to ***** the precious pearls lining the collar of my dress every week, though. I felt the bow across my back untie by your hands and the pure white tulle was ruined by my blood stained skin (though it was not the first a life ******* residue remained).
New Years Eve, 2013 I wore the prettiest dress I had ever owned. Apparently he thought it was pretty, too, because a taken boy kissed me in it. I remember being afraid you were drunk. I remember fighting with you. I remember missing you. I remember telling you that you only talked to me because you missed her. There's not a day I don't miss those drunk texts.
I wore multiple colors and threads fabricating all my good memories into a dress except I can't remember much anymore and this is rather skimpy.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
Moonlight peaking through blinds
intermingling with candlefire,
Illuminating a tired artist
creating out of an innate desire.
Cups of coffee, cream & sugar
downed two at a time for stamina
while the typewriter tatters away
fabricating a tapestry of stories
weaved by burgeoning personas.
Who are you?
the stories ask
The coffee? The cream?
The paper? The sugar?
The moon? The light?
The candle? Their user?
Are you the art or the artist?
The heart or its confuser?
All of these questions & more boggle
the artist, who knows not the difference
between imagination & its manifestation,
reality.
Our rational world of thought has given way
to a mystical realm harbored deep within
every subconscious; a subterfuge of
silver threads that discreetly tie us together.
Every night, one after another,
minds across the world become interwoven
into a network of murmured incantations.
Dreams lost in translation like travelers
awaiting trains at different destinations.
Apr 2, 2023
Apr 2, 2023 at 12:56 AM UTC
I wore a light blue dress the day you kissed me and every day after to prove that I was in love. I had floral patters around my waist so I could twirl around for you and show you the life inside of my heart.
You squeezed my hand as if every letter of their vows was your silent message to me. Red. We wore red. It took me six months for me to let that dress go, and I swear to God I never felt as beautiful as when the rain poured around us that day.
wore a black dress for you with ribbons down my spine but every touch snagged the lace and it's starting to hardly cover me spelling only your name across my hips and my sides. Those dresses were the most appropriate for the days I let you take me. Sheer silk laid across the small of my back. I saw an inviting place for your palms but you only saw the zipper.
How fitting is it that I wore a fitted blue dress to my first real date after we gave up (exactly one year, two months and nine days). The same dress we made love in. The first time you did not tell me you loved me after.
A tan dress just like our skin in the summer. I let a you touch me naked and I've never felt fully clothed ever since. Not even the sleeves and loose skirt of my dress could hide the scars no matter how many times I twirled around for someone new.
I wore a polka-dot dress the first time you touched me inappropriately. I remember it being hot out. I wish I wore something else. November 1st, 2013. You would not even look at me after we became one, never mind talk to me.
On Sundays I wore white dresses to feel innocence again. I never failed to ***** the precious pearls lining the collar of my dress every week, though. I felt the bow across my back untie by your hands and the pure white tulle was ruined by my blood stained skin (though it was not the first a life ******* residue remained).
New Years Eve, 2013 I wore the prettiest dress I had ever owned. Apparently he thought it was pretty, too, because a taken boy kissed me in it. I remember being afraid you were drunk. I remember fighting with you. I remember missing you. I remember telling you that you only talked to me because you missed her. There's not a day I don't miss those drunk texts.
I wore multiple colors and threads fabricating all my good memories into a dress except I can't remember much anymore and this is rather skimpy
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
We have the choice
To make experiences our own
So we do
Creating, fabricating, inventing
better ideals than we have
We are given the power to lie
To synthesize
What we are given
Our realities
We choose to lie
We pick out the thread of
“I wanted this all along”
Spinning and spinning it
Until we are believed
We fool ourselves, our closest companions
Into settling, compromising
And we are not to blame
The alternative?
Miserable honesty
Sufferable affirmations that yes,
“It really is that bad”
We have the choice
To be warriors
To pretend we do not hurt
To not notice we are bleeding
And while greeting the pain
Welcoming it into your home
with a hug and an opportunity to kick off its shoes
While this acknowledgment is freeing
A liberating defiance
To do so continually is overbearing
leaves you drowning in truth
and raw waves of unmet expectations
So as it is
We have a choice
To synthesize
The dirt before our feet into carpets of woven gold
To fabricate
Our own palaces within mediocre routine
To lie and create
and fight
the hand which we were dealt
With all we've got
Which isn't much
So we choose
To synthesize
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
And just what are you expecting to see?
Two eyes just like mine, hands that ache to feel flesh, there is something to fabricating love,
Adequate to say that these threats will go unheard, and through the years I'll get to say I told you so, yet I still feel like a failure,
Cross check the references, comb the referrals, you've got the experience for every job but the one you want,
I find security in preserving the real me,
Over thinking on what should be said next, when just their presence will suffice, trying to explain to yourself how to not sound crazy, all the while talking to yourself.
We all do it,
Some things are better left in that awkward silence, the longer it holds the more said than words could ever entertain, no pure thought is safe,
An invasion that's become obsession,
Even if I tell you all my secrets, there is still apart of me I'm missing, not even I can find it alone
My ego tends to show through,
I get it confused with my personality, which in turn doesn't show much as my skin, cursed to oblivious stares,
Then again I've been talking to myself,
Usually just saying hello, possibly singing some tune, or my favorite describing exactly what I'm doing in confusion,
"What am I writing?"
A taste of reality from the insomniac ramblers program, a show free to watch, and real physical participating with the whole gang,
Hold on tight to this thread,
Your future with me will not be what we expect, I recommend strict regimes for personal viewing times, our minds are hesitant to believing what's in the mirror
I see me, and I see you
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 8:08 PM UTC
Visual interest –
he is twiddling his thumbs,
has marinated his split ends
with a brew of saliva, tears,
and sweat from his temples;
I see, then watch in ****** concern,
I must recognize the person who
could act with such gawkiness,
while appearing so poised:
he is like a performer on stage,
and I am his captivated audience.
Between two index fingers a
mug is situated, vapor fabricating
from its contents – presumably
coffee, with its caffeinated veins
pulsing as a phased mine of energy.
I wish I could be the pin on his vest
or the leather strap bearing his luggage;
his home must be calloused and draped,
its wealth in a single fireplace where
my poetries burn quick, quick, quick.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
she
sits quietly on
a cold, rusted bench,
day-dreaming to the
constant, melodic rustle
of reds, yellows, and oranges
dangling in the calm, crisp
autumn air.
she
gazes, breathlessly,
across wide-open fields,
full of creaking windmills.
fabricating memories,
hoping, one day to be
treasured as her own.
as the thick morning mist
surrounds her.
she
searches, patiently,
over-top tranquil waters.
waiting for him to
answer the questions
she cannot solve alone.
while the sleeping boats
gently toss and turn
against rotting docks.
she
glances towards,
the overcast clouds.
praying for, at least,
her shadow
to return.
Jan 4, 2010
Jan 4, 2010 at 7:42 PM UTC
When pain escalates, your mind excavates
It entertains and agitates the best of your worst thoughts
Thinking while you sink
Sinking while your mind attaches links to other links which create memories
Vile memories that participate in your habit to erase them
To remove them
By ripping them from your mind with force
Using the high of that blatant eight ball as your source
When pain escalates, your mind begins to deteriorate
As you ligate your mind frame with a plateau of mistakes
A gust of emptiness floats uninvited through derailed spaces
Generating issues on top of issues
Imminently transforming you
Fabricating you as two addicts in one body
Two addicts in one mind
Two addicts in one soul
The mind excavates on the level of your thoughts
It digs deep
By means of unique technique
It leaves your heart weak
Like a fading light in the middle of the dark
It'll pull out your distress with raised instructions of defeat
Then attaches a link that involves a ghost that sets your mind a bit free
A bit free, a little empty
The voices go quiet for a time
Your heart can now slow down as your mind continues to unwind
The high of it all makes your body want more
Reaching into your subconscious
Making you believe you need more to be cured
Sinking while you think, your mind provides solutions
Excavating while you sleep, your heart decaying from contortions
Contortions happening in your mind and soul
Contortions that have the ability to leave you body a bit sore
Masking the fears of this uneventful detour
Cause when pain escalates, the mind excavates
It entertains and agitates the best of your worst thoughts
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
Frank fraternized with females
frolicing, flirting, fun
fantastic, fanciful feelings
Fabricating fantasies
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
*Fairytale Evolutions,
Terminating Digital Mutations,
Simulated Sensations,
Transcendent Revolutions,
Hybrid Generations,
Altering Stagnant Amplifications,
Shape Shifting Constellations,
Sterilizing Implications,
Eliciting Blissful Animations,
Decoding Kaleidoscopic Flirtations,
Fabricating Holographic Dimensions,
Reflecting Labyrinth Ramifications,
Transgressional Diversifications,
Empathetic Extortion,
Serene Distortion,
Subversive Contortion,
Forging Conceptual Inoculations
Violating Illusionary Variations,
Incarnating Prototype Deviations,
Radiating Subtle Speculations,
Catalyzing Crystallized Civilizations.
-01:09AM*
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 2:57 PM UTC
You put a halt on progression.
loving you was wrong,
I just learned my lesson.
I understand the blues and
I picked up your depression.
My heads in the clouds
but I know you won’t see heaven.
You are a wolf
in sheep’s clothing
not a blessing in disguise.
No matter how it’s woven
you keep on fabricating lies
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 8:14 PM UTC
*Walls painted with mosses
Snails shifting lento
Towards their new house
Spreading fragrance
Of muddy scent
Waving gooseberry leaves
Begetting chilly breeze
Toppling plumeria flowers
Embellishing landscape
Creepers hugging trees
With craving squirm
Squirrels squealing secrets
Throughout branches
White butterflies fluttering
To kiss ravishing flowers
Lustrous sun getting ready
Fabricating exuberance
Awakening moody chums!*
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 1:32 AM UTC
Cast be thy fate to live in exile
Bated be your fair fluffed fleece
Face of said avenue beguiled
Ebbed a carmine masterpiece
Ebony landscapes you adorn
The eyes of thousands you have hooked
Whines sharp replicas of thorns
Question mark shaped be such nooks
Appeased the ice queen had appeared
Fabricating jagged thrills of mirth
A concept quite eerie, yet linear
'Til done apart by spineless dearth
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC