Maybe the majority of your malice march is fueled with fire;
fictionalized by myself. Simply because my greatest desire is
currently to avoid knowing that you long to hurt me. Dear, let
me tell you this; **I know everything.

A faith we fancy is that freedom is fabricated and forged for us by our forefathers who fought and forced their foes to forfeit their feud. They fended fiercely and defended fearlessly a fictionalized fact, freedom, filtered with fire and flame. A few fell to be famed fellows of the future while a fraction of the fraternity are farewelled faceless.

All those frigid flashback brought-forth what we framed and fantasized as freewill and forbade freaks to falsify our fascination.

It all falters as we fathom that freedom didn't fade ,but w/o a fons-et-ergo, a foolish fairytale foretold for us to falsely follow a formula for the foremen to fortify the fake façade of freedom while we flounder and they float.

And if we flush and fracture their folderol, we are flagged as flagitious, frauds and fellons.
For the feasibility of freedom is a mere ****** Fuckery to **** us.

This thing, the words and all?  I was trying on a new skin.
It was made of the old -the familiar, too, but transformed.
Something added that could take root,
Take me out from the norm.
Take on a new identity.
Perform.
Squinting at a light, held at arm’s length:
My own spotlight.
So you could watch me act it all out,
Over and over, forever on the page.
but nothing ends as it began.
My troubles, my worries, my lust, my greed,
All fictionalized and petty.

Disgust and shame.
Anger and fear,
Are not advisable
Unless they bring about change.
Even those, now left behind.
Moulted.
Shedding my old skin.
Toughening up the new.

She's a rainbow

-- that rainbow in every
rock song about nothing,
a hidden hook that snares
a sucker's wallet

   *I'm so hot for her, I'm so hot for her

She
is the philosopher's stone transmuting
garbage lines into shiny trinkets
in desirous minds

   When you're old, nobody will know
   that you was a beauty

         What would pop culture be
         without woman to exploit?

   She's a gooooooood girl
   crazy 'bout Elvis

Obscured, behind
the Micks and Pettys
   the Kellys and Ushers
      the Pauls wailing MAMAAAAA
         the free spirit groupie cliché

is Woman fictionalized
by peacocking pimps
deceptive plumage splayed

is Woman
   sung about
   talked at
   reduced to an abstraction
   dispensed with
   forgotten
   and sold
   and the men
get rich.

Robin's egg eyes,
Disheveled blonde hair,
Pupils that burn,
Entreat me to your lair.

Held me as I slept,
Caress me awake,
I watched as you wept,
About a life fictionalized to date.

Floral patterns surround us,
A ceiling of sky blue,
Close your eyes to imagine,
A mingling of two.

Under the star filled sky,
Above the deep black sea,
You suspend me,
You arrest me.

I watch
I understand
and I feel
most importantly

As you sleep
I know
I cannot feel
anything
from you...

it makes one wonder
is love tangible?
or is it humanly fictionalized

written as if this
what you are receiving
and reading right now
is...
well,
love.

can you feel that i care?
I will never know.
by your stare
impossible...
for you are asleep

I'll just lay my head down next to yours
maybe my life will cease
hoping I will cause an effect
maybe just a crease

maybe I can stop you
stop you
from counting sheep

perhaps teach you how to read

or maybe you can teach me to stop loving you
as you sleep.

I thought about you last night
And it's not what you're thinking
I mean more like day dreaming
More like a storyline
Playing out in my head
With ups and downs
And it was so perfect
I wrote it down
And realized
I might love my fictionalized version of you
More than the real you
I guess that's always the case
But it made me realise
What I love so much
About writing
It's the closest I've ever felt
To god

I sit at home thinking of life,
On the absurdities and all the strife,
Caught in a world that yearns
For beings to explore it.

How we’ve all grown addicted,
As no one could’ve predicted,
To our own little "ideal" worlds
That rest neatly in the palm of our hands.

We cry and complain,
How things don’t remain,
Just way the way we want
When we point our heads to the sky.

Away from our own little worlds,

We see grandiosity unthought of.
We see war, famine, disagreements, heartbreaks, rejection, and loss.
We stare for but a moment taking it in as our minds collapse in the straw houses we created.
And then just like that, we shun all that we see,
And look back down to that glowing screen and start to rebuild.

Not with something stronger, no.

With that same old material so readily available, to those who refuse to learn.
To those who refuse to face the reality of life.
To those who prefer hearing their own ideas on rerun.
To those who care more about having the appearance of a happiness than to actually achieve it.
To those who care more about likes and comments, pictures and videos, than meeting others.
We sit there smiling at that device that eats away at our growth, our character, and our resolve.

And in our haste to prevent ourselves from acknowledging hardships, we miss something.
In that infinite space away from our "ideal" worlds, exists the other half we no longer see.
The happiness, bonds, trust, friendships, kindness, and love.
The people that want to strike up a conversation, form relationships.
The people who desire an emotional bond, rather than a visual one.
We imitate this, attempt to recreate it, in our fictionalized lives, not realizing how much better the real thing would be.

If only we would look up to the sky.

I know I think the best
When surfing across the internet
Or scanning a page for class
Some forum
To shift my ******* towards,

Whether to impress, or to forget.
It’s all the same.
I do not laugh at the right time
And end up in breakdowns
When I’m confronted with the actor that is also me.

Call it fraudulence if you will,
It’s a means to ends of the perfect relationship
I’ve fictionalized in my head.

I’ve fallen in love with falling love
And get off to just holding hands and feeling wanted.

Does memory bless me the inspiration to write down in verse
Some alternative that proves, I know,
Useless
In the long run?

Are the psychologists right?
Am I destined to die by my own hand?
My own pen?
By cause of my own disposition?

Thoughts of suicide, depression, endless solipsism pervade
My little godless world.
Poetry solidifies it.

*******. ******* whose rejection is undeserving of my hatred
Whose own life is the object of my own stupid, adolescent, immature mode
Of healing, whose subjectivity, whose humanness
Is of its own design and accord—I do not own you
You are as you are: not mine, but your own.

And I hate you because you do not oblige me as I think you should
You do as you ought, as you do—

Is this what it feels like?

Where is there happiness if not for in the end?

False illusions such as time,  measurements, statistics and values...... create, conjure, and prevent real situations!

i need to see the sun rise this day;
for feet elucidated of patterns
followed upon an earth. wearied
or aching, knees to find
rest on Katahdin's summit;
fictionalized place of birthed sun.
now mythos, now dawn and
an arrow sure to have missed
the moon's lover. fired
by childhood mockery
while birds awakened song.
i need to see the sun rise this day;
for eyes be witness of intri-
cacies entwined upon an earth.

There was this thing with parsley and lemon that i never knew,
Before jasmine bloomed below my moonless nights.

It came as a surprise when i learned the moistened bundles,
Green of scented lashings, took to whipping saintly flesh.

Holy was the root beneath the sacrificial lamb, white and rubbed of
Tasteless degraded dirt, growing in rows facing artificial south.

"Baaa-baaa", cried the appetite for its feeding in the field.
"Baaa-baaa", scorned the lemon lamb.

Seeds squeezed free as yellow screams dripped through divine ears.
Bitter acid, holy ghost, neutralize our sins.

"Nothing will be wasted, nor forgotten!" claimed
The shears. as hands of holy citrus, clip-clipped-buzzzzzzz.

Tremendous clouds of earthly fluff, not hung high as the
Gods do for fear, lay beside the feasted lamb of peasants parsley

Naked; purged; they gathered in stinging holy hands,
Around their false and bleeding christ , fictionalized death, fabricated life.

Lemon seeds i now spit for sport and leaves of parsley i keep pruned
From their rocky stalk. the roots i boil and use to fill a truffled stew.

Aint' it a shame
I hear them complain
as clouds of smoke
circle their faces.

Tight jacket teens
glare at me
dangerously.

Tallest of the bunch
growls angrily,
"stop looking at me
puke face."

I turn away
but not fast enough
cause mister
tough stuff
has something more
in mind you see.

Stomping over all
indignantly,
he yells
"Hey,
you ignoring me?"

I try to move
faster than him,
but a shove in my back
makes it clear
this is a race
I won't win.

So, I face him.
Two years older,
might as well be
twenty-three
to my early teens.

He pushes me
back up against a tree,
then goes in to punch
me in the face,
but my face
does not remain
in that unsafe place.
So, he hits the tree.

Cursing loudly
with a mangled hand
slows him down,
but doesn't stop his friends.
They follow me
down the street
and beat me till
I am out of wind.

This is were
this poem ends.
There is no
sweet revenge.
Time goes on.
I don't see them again,
and this becomes something
distorted and fictionalized
in these poetic lines.

I wonder
I see
didn't even know that came from me

I saw
I begin to believe
and how quickly it all changes
when none can agree

Agree with what
that's all I'd say
though I couldn't care less
either way

I have since forgotten
what it means to be
and to see with clear vision
all that I am to see

I haven't even tried
though in rhymes I can write
and with such cowardice
I maddeningly deny
all that I have been
and hope to be

It's not about me
these words are just
things that come to my mind
screaming, ringing, being

I could go on for eternities
now that I've learnt to let go
who cares what it's saying
I've said it
so now it is so

what does it mean
to be totally free
fictionalized fantasies
it seems
have no place with me

There are no limits
to what was meant to be
and even in reverse
it can be what's said to me

I say, I sing, I cry
I'm a dreamer
dreaming of things that I
hope to never do
but someday still
will find within me
dripping with meaning
leaving me
solemn, content, and still

So many times I try not to rhyme
can't stand the corniness it adds to each line

Dare I depart to a world all my own
where is that sound I long for
and have come to know

I search for true meaning
though really
nothing at all
it's just something said
for me to be saying something again

One day
just watch
soon you will see
as was meant to be
words flowing freely
in majestic prose
stopping hearts
but when they wonder why
an answer they can not find

Why do I do it
where does it all come from
can I believe
can I become
what it seems to me
never was and never wants to be

I have no shame
so the words flow without haste
I don't even care if they didn't keep pace

You will never progress if you do not believe
but more important is to try
then repeat
but just like me

I'm going somewhere
this I know
it's only a matter of time
before it will be so

I stumble through my words
And I tell you my fictionalized truth

I meant it all but I mean nothing of the sort
I never do.

It was -

The way my chest felt compressed and full
It boiled and ached when you
Kiss me on the cheek.

It didn't feel right, I didn't feel okay.

I didn't know what to do,
So I verbalized my mistakes.

I counted them
Again and again to push you away
Hoping you'd be scared but you
Kept steady, you stayed and stayed.

And all I wanted was for you to leave.
I love better at a distance.

The Reds won by turning capitalism and democracy against us The frenzied shortsighted pursuit of individualism enraptured by its own grandiosity Obese in arrogance and false piety Among our weakest links the myth of liberty in the guise of protection against our own From My Cold Dead Hands they will eulogize the depths of our hypocrisies tucked into the gaping cracks of a marbled column tombstone that reads We the People a hollow echo from a dead philosophers guilded mirror reflecting delusions of equality while his window glimpsed the reality of People bound as chattle An era of monsters championed as heritage by a devolved theater of gross absurdity enraptured by a sycophantic maelstrom swirling a wretched mass of vitriolic grievance creeping its facists tendrils through our halls our homes and our hearts So much bluster about essential freedoms now a **** in the wind from a constituency of the ignorant dead eyed before the altar of Exceptionalism A manifestion of the truly unexceptional by a bizarre cult of personality devoid of that very essence Whiny and bloated convinced its oily opulence is somehow self evident justification for its own cavernous gluttony Heavy the privileged jowels spew hatred and lies slathered in corruption shouted as truth through the arcanity of scripture among those who would not know the forest from the trees from the rot in their minds as long as it says so on the TV vomiting endless propaganda of imagined shadow forces flooding the country with fictionalized caramel colored criminals Willingly blind barrelling into a fog of twisted fantasy failing to realize that the narcos envisioned pale by comparison of heinous intention or deed to the very real NARCs embraced Lockstep and jackboot heel in tow behind a tide of Nationalism that is anything but A contrived patriotism cannibalizing its own mythology whittling the bones of history to alternate facts devoured by fat children as so much sugary cereal bored reading the Constitution from the back of a whitewashed cardboard box ******* about a return to values and integrity they never possessed with their fingers crossed Cowing to the blackened whims of spineless parasitic wraiths picking at the shades of fallen titans Packs of roving dipshits trumpeting ideals their grandfathers died to eradicate Prancing about sporting the finest camo and tac gear in a perverse sashay Their measure of civic duty reduced to how much red white and blue crowds their shitstained boxers dowsed in cheap beer and sad rivulets of encrusted ***** trickled in a shame for which they have yet to fully account or atone Fools leading the foolish to oblivion are we God bless the USA for surely no creature under heaven would

How do we breath in the scent of forgiveness and never once think to ask if it was willingly met?

How do humans function with one another when there is so much prejudice and turmoil?

How does the wind so simply carry away all of our pains when there's nothing to keep it steady?

How does love conquer all when its all just a fictionalized lie?

How am I here when I should be there?

How is my heart still beating when there is no value in the life that I live?

How can I love when all I ever been met back with is the force of friendship?

So, I missed you,
misused
the tales
that other dudes
passed on.

I stole
the swollen heart of
the dark art’s love,
in observing
and serving up
other peoples
stuff,

little notes
about their lives,
things that I
did not experience
or survive,
but I still write
about those desperate nights
bringing their realities to light.

I plagiarized,
with a chameleon’s guise,
took their truths,
rationalized,
and fictionalized
with little details
and larger lies.

But isn’t that how
strangers empathize?
Isn’t this how
creatives thrive?

It's the same high stakes
bootstrap narrative that takes
a creative license with
the stories of people that really exist.

It's a biopic,
a fictionalized
version of some real lives
told with real lies.
Till we realize,
we need clear eyes
unclouded by corporate lies
to understand what lies
behind the underhand
and reveal how humans
actually expand
their consciousness.

Take notice valiant men of the Philippine archipelago! White men have arrived to conquer (and to be conquered by) your alluring, young women! Testimonial: I was in my Burgundy chalet feeding peanut shells to slaves thinking about having my neighbors arrested on *******-up charges and about what to write in a letter to Jack the Ripper to end our friendship: "Dear Jack the Ripper: We can no longer be friends." The following is my fictionalized entry from Jack the Ripper's diary (pre-***** ****** entries): "Dear Diary: Went to the tobacconist today and bought 2 pounds of pipe tobacco. Complimented clerk on rakish bow-tie. Returned to flat, ate a bug and threw boiling *** on a family of four (a couple and 2 children) as they passed beneath my window.