Fictionalizing poems on Hello Poetry

mzwai Dec 2014

There is no whiskey in his room tonight...

Instead,
There is a half-empty glass of-
Rock shandy, Pepsi-cola, Dr.Pepper,
Or something black.
Something minuscule,
even though he has not sipped from it.
He has not looked at it- his tongue
Was only dry for two minutes before he
Locked the door.
For the only presence that made it hard for him to swallow
Was in the form of something that he was still trying to release...
at 2AM.
Release at 2AM.
There is a typewriter in front of him and he is feeling as permeable as
The glass that is sitting next to it.
'as permeable if it had a closed lid made up out of carbon' he thinks.
'Closed lid', 'Carbon',
'Closed lid'
He does not know what to type.
As distance diminished it's existence throughout the years,
He began to realize that Letters were starting to transform themselves
Into Diary-Entries and vice-versa.
The art of belittling seclusion through the method of fictionalizing himself
Was turning more into a hobby than an art and
he did not know what to do except to accept it as a tragedy
That nobody else needed to know about.
"Tragedy:" he types.
"I don't know how to forget about you."
'And etcetera,' he thinks.
In his minds eye he sees a girl in a school far away.
She's holding a camera and a textbook and a picture of a boy
That isn't him.
She's walking into her new life and one day she will go a week without
Thinking about how it feels to know interest and feel it shared
from someone who thought it never existed.
One day she will go a week without thinking about the boy who stared at empty pages
And wrote letters about bitter meals that his tongue thought could never be tasted.
One day she will go a week with just the thought of how glamorous a life spent alone is...
Before she meets someone there...
Who will make her taste something that is less bitter than him himself.
'I hope that's where my story ends.' He thinks.
And then imagines himself embedded into
Dark bitter things.
(Tobacco, caffeine, dark chocolate.)
He sighs and stares at the words he has already typed.
He can imagine these bitter things spilling into his glass and changing its taste with each
little drop.
"You were dead to me before you even walked out of the door..." He decides,
And puts it onto the paper.
He lifts the glass and takes a sip and then puts it back down again.
'One day she will go a week without thinking about me..." He thinks.
Release at 2AM.

Brittle Bird Apr 2015

Blacktop Music

I didn't hold tendons between my fingers like
street boys on rain city rooftops,
crumpling their futures up to smash into shredded jeans,
shredded hearts,
some wrappers escaping, flying over this city
as our neglectful witnesses.

Their hands were broken bottles. The black top
made my guts look like escaping snakes,
my eyes hoping to be Medusa.
Fictionalizing gets me through most things.
Sometimes pain tastes like metal, sometimes like cherries.

I stare at the sideways sunset, a wrapper spit up
and drying out, a pipe dream promise;
reviewing my time strips as if they'd had a spelling change,
recounting every drop of blood word and smile.
Sometimes I forget that I'm real.
Sometimes I'm not.

Day 27 of NaPoWriMo.

#dreams #reality #blood #boys #sunset #city #violence #fiction #rooftop #raincity

Sam Temple Aug 2014

slowjam for the mainstream

lasing fallacies
facilitated by flunkies
fictionalizing facts
for freedom
re-done interiors
inferior to craftsmanship of old
offer glimpses into consciousness
of the common folk
squandering birthrights
for a burger richer in trans fat
and bacon flavoring
atop an evangelical spire
I peer into soulless zombies
seeking connection
with my kin
only to have reality slap me back
as wolves are kin to pugs
but they cannot coexist
storm clouds gather
night falls
tears drop
I am alone
bone dry dust bowl
harboring fuchsia scorch marks
landscape scars
fracking remnants
humanity’s blight
my line of sight tracks trite sprites
pixie wings and bath salts
eating dog faces for jesus
or worse
feces
out of hunger
horrified I recoil to a safe spot within
again
with old friends
in the din
I win

Robert van Lingen Jun 2019

Into the Fray

Fawning over the fissile festivities,
with which I fake my facile form.
Fatal futility floods my far-flung faith in myself.

Feeding the fires of my forgery,
Frantic forethought,
Fictionalizing the facts before my faithless eyes.

Forclosing upon the fractional freedoms that I've so long fought for.
Fearing the unforgiving firestorm that follows,
Once I've finally exhausted faith in my future.

Fielding my final fight,
Standing fast in the face of futility.
Fit to fly into the fray.

#f #random #interesting #unique #different #fight

matthew scott harris Sep 2020

Obliviousness concerning lapsed driver license

(alternate title: days of yore bubba's zayda
flush with buggy boo horse sense).

Norristown City Hall police person
informed yours truly
on September 15th, 2020
mine automotive driver license expired,
thus between January 13th 2019
and September 17th, 2020
I drove automobile,
(whether borrowed or owned)
without vehicular infraction.

Prevarication about me getting arrested absent bail
and locked up into solitary confinement without fail
predicated upon outdated invalid license lands me in jail
cuz fabrication jest haint gonna happen,
hammering out suspenseful account I cannot nail,
no matter I would love to concoct tall tale

Subsequently, yours truly
steers toward truth telling in the main,
whereby prefabrication painstakingly
heavily taxes me aging brain
especially bragging about
heavenly guardian angel,

said divine intervention I abstain,
though quite tempting
to (beer lee) draft believable hopping plain
vanilla drab lackluster circumstance,
and embellish a flimsy fib
including agent provocateurs quite urbane,

whereby unwittingly, haphazardly,
and accidentally committing
non moving violation
imposing driving record stain,
particularly when aforesaid
minor harmless transgression

invites punishing reign
innocently, only unintentionally
to flout PENNDOT rule,
which hoop fully doth explain
reason nevertheless quandary
necessitated posse comitatus.

Therefore ipso facto such quasi confession,
albeit unexciting and bland
necessitates self imposed liberty
letting mine imagination command
poetic license crafting experience
resident within dreamland,

where truthfulness I blithely expand,
cuz anonymous reader(s)
more inclined to gravitate toward firebrand,
wannabe, whereby reasonable rhyme
nothing particularly grand
written by invisible hand.

Provide me please gainful opportunity
to enable and allow
glorified, edified, and crucified across
millennia one divine creature hood da boss
(no not Bruce Springsteen)
sanctifying supposed dregs of humankind

essentially flotsam and jetsam dross
humdrum life of random Tulliver kin
inhabiting the mill on the floss
a riveting saga (also Silas Marner
written by same author) with matted gloss.

Ah, methinks how George Eliot
(Mary Ann Evans) quite literary ace,
her fiction she didst buttress and brace
galvanizing, fictionalizing,
and enumerating disgrace
appears quaint, thee second
decade of twenty first century
nostalgic imaginary place,

yours truly would clamor to live
exempt from careering, jackknifing,
and speeding, rat race
peace of mind impossible mission
leisurely pedestrian strolling
(think about taking stop at Willoughby),
where helter skelter breakneck pace
nonexistent without a trace.

— The End —