'Once upon a time' and 'Many years ago';
I begin with an idle thinkers' reminisce-
A past, flowing into the future
As a waterfall cascades down the valley
I am delicately delivered,
Intricately fed into the senses of a curious listener-
I am words, sometimes arranged into a ballad,
Sometimes haphazard and tragic;

I'm known by speech and the word of mouth,
My identity laced into the syllables that people whisper,
And sometimes it slips into the conversation out of the blue;
I wonder and wonder,
As I find myself moulded into verses that don't rhyme
I begin to question the veracity of my existence
Dubious as I am, I find-
myself compiled in wrinkled volumes of pale history books,
Sometimes constructively reconstructed, from my toe up to my hood
Fabled into gossips, garnishing lunch and dinner;
My world reduced into words- sometimes a saint, other times a sinner.

I find bits of me scattered around in peoples' lives, bigger stories,
But not a minute passes
When I don't loath or despise,
The shallowness of perception
As my depth is undermined.

Unknown and unfortunately misunderstood,
My story carries on and on-
Masked by words that fail to define,
Who, what and why I am
Slowly ageing and spent away by time.

Alas, I lie untouched:
Abysmal, surrounded by darkness-
Alone, having become
the perfect manifestation of what they'd thought of me,
My words are fiction and so am I,
And this,
this is my story.

(https://theextrainextraordinary.wordpress.com/)

So sweet, innocent, divine
A gorgeous face and a beautiful mind
Like her, your words steal my attention
Intriguing my mind to seek your affection
And like she did, you notice my charm
Quite unusual, yet satisfyingly warm
No surprise that our conversations run deep
And even late at night we don't always sleep
Do I see the parallels, plaguing my vision
To mirror you closely to my last proposition?
Are the warning signs blazing?
The sirens screaming?
They don't warn to discontinue
Simply to ensure great caution too
Different, very much, you seem
Yet there she sits, haunting my dreams
And the similarities are enough to compare
(But I wonder if they're ficticious or truly there)
I know that I'm crazy,
no doubt my mind's reeling
But I'm also so broken
That I'm afraid to start feeling.

I am a dark illumination.
Ficticious realization.
A monotonous mutation of
united segregation.
An evolutionary creation.
A negative affirmation.
Loyal to indifferent dedication.
A fan of natural artificial insemination.
A victim of ignorant education.
A truthful illusion or factual delusion.
Either way this begins my conclusion.

Evolution III


You know the worlds off it's rocker
Civilizations gone mad
When Madonna wears her David
like a Gucci bag
When the axis of evil
can wage war on the west
And the west just seeks oil
While saying **** all the rest

You know things aren't quite right
When we look at reality
And we see the sad state
for two thirds of humanity
Yeah we say we've moved on
Smugly think we've evolved
And yet we're still fighting wars
That are two thousand years old

Is that the life that we want
for our brothers and sisters
The next two thousand years
With these atrocities blisters
As so called leaders of men
call their kin to let blood
In the so and so names
of their ficticious gods

This war of attrition
of Islam/Christianity
Has got to be stopped
For the sake of humanity
We can't listen to prophets
Of destruction and war
As they twist up the morals
These great religions once bore

Now's the time to stand up
Be complete multi faithful
Yeah it's time to start banging
Our fists on the table
Be as one for all creeds
And all colours and sects
And untie this foul noose
They've placed over our necks

Yeah it's time to start fixing
The mistakes of the past
Yeah it's time to start pulling
Our heads from our ****
For if we want there to be
A future for Our children,
We've got to grab this last chance
and be the next Evolution..


©HaroldRizla

Laboto ackarine foto
Eone solaeih
I think when my childhood found me
Beneath trees
Building homes for faeries
And praying in ficticious tongues
The forest gods came through
Because you came from somewhere else.

When you learn how to write they teach you
"show, don't tell"
to keep the mystery alive, to keep it vibrant, keep it flowing
They tell you keep it short and sweet, with details subtle enough to envision the beautiful girl you make the protagonist who beholds every quality you yourself are lacking but can compensate for in another, ficticious character.
And so you decorate her with
serendipitous flaws and stories that resolve once the page has turned
but as you type you lose who you are.
Show, dont' tell. So you make sure well enough that she glows so that all the readers know she is not hurting. You make sure her eyes beam and that her smile radiates so that no one knows you're breaking.
How do you show, and not tell, when the only thing you feel is yourself collapsing? How can you show that you feel nothing inside but outside remain alive and
how the **** do you show that you miss someone because they took so much of you when they left and tore the pages of you two out of their memory?
I cannot show that, I cannot tell that. And so I write.


You forget that what you did you cannot take back so you ensure
she does not make the same mistake unless the page reveals it was okay in the first place.
How we would **** for a story book ending as we beg for feelings that aren't pending, waiting for another reason to be happy that you cannot write back in

You discovered something as you wrote
you choose who hurts who
but in fact, you cannot choose who hurts you
so you write away the mistakes you've made
those ones you pretend you didn't
those ones that haunt you as you remember that
the person you once loved is gone forever
You finish a chapter hoping to forget that you are nothing but empty
writing does not fill you up
writing does not allow you to see deeper
it makes it easier for you to pretend that you do not miss him

It makes it easier to remember the nights you spent laughing as you make them into inciting incidents when in reality
they were tragic endings

a puzzle, what to do with the
ficticious thing, the thing we
don’t have.

an idea.

with that in mind, we
plot and plan.

work on our identity.

a busy day,
which worked out well.

it was the obvious, that
they did not all see.

i bought seeds for the hawfinch.

sbm.

it is number 13
a thunder ball
in my mind.

who is james bond
anyway,
he is ficticious.

elephant is not.

we got up too early,

went back to bed.

with a cup of tea.



sbm.