"fictitiously" poems
I felt the world at a finger tip,
It tingled
And radiated,
Radius.
Sedated,
I am medicated on absence
And excess.
You are the mirror to me,
My existential mess,
Superiority and minority thought.
Superficial and fictitiously bought,
Buyer from the sold,
Silver to the raindrop,
Water to your gold.
It drips
Fingertips,
Touched the world at a lark,
Till light fled,
Leaving the dark.
I bid farewell to new,
And hello to you.
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 1:31 AM UTC
As you search twice
For meanings
Cleverly stood
Hid in abstract
Paradoxical format
Ingeniously pushed
Between lines
Of landscape analogies
Fictitiously portrayed
In anonymous
contagious ideologies
I'm sorry
For your losses
Of time and duress
Yet my incomplete thoughts
Can riddle even the best
Into a landscape
Of wild weeds and laughter
I waste away
In time torn pasture
Where timeless turns
To dusty grey
I push save poem
And slip away...
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
My bed is empty. I count the seconds down until you appear: 1...2...3 times you've asked me to leave you alone. Leave you alone? How can I let you be so cruel, so uncaring, and so completely and totally near to my voice. I can't. It's not who you are in this world-we call reality sets in and I grab my **** as the black of guilt sets in.
Black. Gray. White. What room am I in? There's ten feet of tile by ten feet heaven bound. The claw foot tub grips at the **** stained floor, fighting gravity's nagging whine. It's all too real. All too fictitiously crisp. All too false.
The ivory room slips into the field as the brown drains from the vomitorium. Bathhouses, **** me. Lesioned tricks, **** me. Loneliness, **** off-off to Cair Paravel.
I'm an ice cube in an ocean. Don’t drown, don't go, just come.
Rhythm stops and I study the damage. Laying alone on my bed, skin burning with the genocide of my seed spilt for you, I realize you are gone. With the revival of my senses I realize: You are a dream. A fabrication of lust and desire. But this moment, these feelings are ever changing. This moment is real. This time it's you. Tomorrow night: Tommy Anders, Brent Everett, Mr. Corrigan! Pornstars extraordinaire.
That's all I get nowadays.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
What if all you believed was a lie
What if everything was an illusive deceit
Would you commit suicide, continue to believe or investigate the truth?
What if your life depended on it
What would you do?
There is paper trails wrapped up in illusion and like a picture framed
You only see what is there,
At least what the camera shots.
Charisma is subtle
It’s a quality I despise, why?
It’s the traits of politicians,
They tell you sweet bitter lies,
A fool enthralled, you eat it up like it was pork chops and salads
An appetizer
A delight.
Conspiracy theory elaborates truth as well as lies
What are we to believe when the world is built on bluff?
And we are all blind; give me a pair of glasses so I may see the world more vividly
I do however; believe I need more than that.
What holy war is upon us, when will the Jews have some solace?
When will the fat aristocrat evacuate his couch and out of the kings palace?
When will the rich exchange shoes with the poor and vice versa so
They might know the shackled ******** life as well as champagne and caviar.
We question the possibility of what takes precedence
I may Google the net, read a thousand books
Dive in all sorts of information
But I guess my appetite wouldn’t be satisfied because my eyes and ears
Had enough to realize and acknowledge that the world is built truly on illusion
If you don’t believe me, take the movies,
They use graphics and all the technology at their leisure for things to appear real
Actors and actresses like wise
We are all plunged in by theses perceptive beliefs
That precipitates a reality that conjures fictitiously real.
All rights Reserved.
Christena Antonia Valaire Williams.
April 17, 2013
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
Boulders
Believed in me
'Sometimes'
--Fictitiously I fail
And these arms
Now merged always
Into-table-cloth
Bore shifting skies
Between rooftops
Singing damnation
With windy-thistle-
Clouds-
Trebling happy hollows.
'I died here'
Somewhere in the,
Meadow.
Gasping occasionally
To siphon life from
Pictures that seldom move.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
childhood is so undeniably attractive
in youth, with eyes like hearts because we perceived with our hearts
and minds filled with stars and naivete; captivated by nuance yet aroused by simplicity
speaking in dreams and romance,
living freely, boldly, and fictitiously in some elders' disregarded reality.
and we remember such, in fleeting hope
that our greying eyes may see in spectrum once again.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 1:43 PM UTC
"Existence is but a deception," thinks Mister Sen,
"a ***** little lie, a junkyard of loss created by all men."
With cellophane dreams in restless hearts,
Mister Sen contemplates "to- comprehend, this or that."
"But everything is as zero as good,
and all are as one as bad."
Mister Sen thinks to himself, "I ain't no ***** little rat..."
Thus he walked out, and right on to the door, and,
With fancy biggy dreams,
stopped once or maybe twice to check out the store,
A store of books which sold fiction and all those upon a time, just at once,
Mister Sen, therein and herein, thought of having a slightly furtive glance.
He has read a lot of Sartre, Beauvoir, and Gilles,
He has read of Toni Morrison, The bluest eye,
But he has never read of himself on any given day,
He has never read of himself within any story to say.
Thus Mister Sen thought to himself-
"I am all old and a bit too shy to be told, maybe...
In any drama or an in any such way, to be too fictitiously wavy,
Existence is but a deception, and a ***** little lie,
Even in fiction and philosophy, I Don't have any right to look
around with my eye,
Why won't I have a chance to say any goodbye?"
He walked home, all cold and tired, and all,
With nothing in the world which seemed to be so good as true,
Mister Sen but never thought of himself,
That he was a story, combined to form a million things, untrue.
Mister Sen, Well this one's for you!
"It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew, They were all really blue,
Dreamy And wavy like scented flowers at night and bright,
Bright as white and pearly glow,
Mister Sen They were all really blue,
To be honest at heart, they were, Meant to be only for you."
Mister Sen, this one is for you!
It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
A friend of mine told me
I was in love
with you, of all people--
my jaded romantic,
hopeless and cynical,
fictitiously crafted.
I told her she was wrong
emphatically--
that I didn't fall
(in love or otherwise)
for boys like you,
uncertain and determined
to be anything and everything--
mostly because I refuse
to allow you to be right.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
I’m smiling fictitiously, feigning functionality, I battle growing apathy, due to your incessant irrationality. Spewing hate filled bigotry, by angrily insulting me is no longer satisfactory, i've been growing rather weary of your paltry ****** misery. You act like you’re a victim, when you’re actually vindictive, yet everyone still beckons, to your pretentious petty whims.
Your consistent conniptions are causing great friction, you’re a deplorably toxic affliction that your friends have to endure. You don’t seek a cure, ignore the people who care, and never mature, but sure. We are what’s wrong.
Affecting everyone around you with your irritating ignorance, not noticing the damage that you make your friends experience. By acting solely on your selfishness, you’re becoming quite a hindrance.
Replace this self-annihilation with rehabilitation. You’re always seeking affirmation but go about it the wrong way, keep up this desolation and then no one’s going to stay for you. Because with enough persistent pressure, the strongest rock will become weathered, the bonds you’ve made will start to sever, you’re going to lose your friends forever.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
Stifled into servitude
infiltrated
***** pillaged
consumed
The papers piper
plays their tune
Thick as thieves
they lead you to their ruse
Pay into the fuse
lighting our inevitable doom
Fictitiously facing
agitations of their separation
Believe youre free
to serve a nation
which merely is
a corporation
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 8:53 PM UTC
The sound of peace silenced by a thousand guns at war
Silenced by a thousand voices with words they have used before
The avenues of unity and humanity, no longer do the voices explore
My heart and my soul they suffer , I bleed with the torture from within, the actions of so many I so deplore
Serenity subdued, quite conveniently quashed, the hands of the perpetrators so easily washed ,those who seek, left behind left out there in the wild the bleak, voiceless and destitute, forever free,and forever resolute
The sound of peace is the noise of those who endure, those whose thoughts lean towards pure, maddened by the monstrosity of life with its parade of parasites, a disease with no cure, the sound of white noise to keep peace from your door
The sound of peace the crying of an orphan child, a refugee before he's turned three, the politics of peace in the land of his father, is the sound of desolation, a way to dampen and eradicate the sound of inspiration, this sad child knows only a sound so wild, the sound of a land viciously ***** and from its pavements of beggars, streets of vagrants , it can never be scraped.
The sound of our sovereignty, the sound of our ruling state, the sound of a cash machine, the sound of another devious deal declared, into the dark hours of deceit the sound of brokers exchanging gifts as they fictitiously negotiate
The sound of our country, the sound of our victory, the sound of our old dying in care homes fit only for dying rats, the sound of the nhs run by pompous over paid blood ******* fat cats, as patients and nurses suffer, they continue to help each other, the sound of our great land, whispers and secret deals with the upper echelons who have always had the upper hand,
The sound of now , this modern age , the sound of your child crying at 42, faced with a torture of finance , a restraint of existence and excess responsibility, no reason to be no reason to do, more so than ever a slave to the wage that seems to furnish so much more for others, you can only sit by and listen to the sound of brothers killing brothers
Our greatest new age noise the suicide inducing tremor of look at what we have created and how it is so silent those who turned out as the great gift of capitalism was celebrated, silent if it were not for the greatest noise you can hear, it grows and grows void of any past fabled fear
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 11:26 AM UTC
I am like a dying candle whose energy is being lost
My duties and responsibilities took me on the way
Now my heart and soul are waiting for the real blast
And my near and dear ones have left me to pass away
I have played my inning passing thru all thunder
I have saved my loved ones from the earthquake
Now with blur eyes when I look back to blunder
What is this world full of mockery fictitiously fake
The light of my eyes is now waiting for light to go
My predestined destiny and destination are in front
Still I aspire to see all my loved ones before the blow
Let me gracefully and graciously take the judgement
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2017 Golden Glow
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC