Bobby Fictionable 5/28/19 Bobby Fictionable 5/28/19

Expressions of a Self-Destructive Personality

A collection of older poems.

. . . .

The deeper I look into this hole

the harder it becomes to see the light,

Vision’s blurred by past possibilities,

slurred with brow furrowing foresights.

My mind’s racing itself,

not too sure whether it’s coming in first or last.

I look up into the future,

and I see nothing but black racked with riddles.

Packed in the middle,

little fiddles without strings play themes in dreams

that seem so heavy waking up relieves the pressure.

The lesser of the two is which;

Reality

Unconsciousness?

Launch this into the abyss of time lost.

As I’m tossed into the blender of splendor preset on liquefy,

I simplify why I try.

The question I’m left guessing.

Professing probable prophecies.

Pharmacies temporarily relinquish the extinguisher for the internal inferno.

Eternal peace only comes with a life time of pain,

maintain the mainframe,

contain constraint.

Tainting everything I touch with such scarred disregard,

with feelings jarred and bottled.

. . . .

Can you define ‘Divine Intervention’ as ‘Accidental’,

or Refine ‘Fate’ into ‘Probability’?

Try it…

The annihilation of Gods.

. . . .

Forgiveness is fortitude,

and I’m left standing in the rain of solitude.

All Because of my attitude,

and rude remarks to rectify recent wrong doings.

Gluing pieces back together,

then misconstruing the meaning to the point where every letter mimics and mocks my being,

Seeing through my transparent self-esteem.

Apparently,

It just seems that I’m just over-reacting.

Subtracting and adding,

Sorting fact and fiction.

Mix in self interpreted hidden messages along with blatant top shelf insults intermit into this mess.

Confess past transgressions,

Still no progression as I’m flooded with mundane memories and tidings of terrible timing.

Every time I try to apologize all that comes out is ‘FUCK YOU’,

I try to right the wrong,

but the wrong seems right.

My sorrow will long surpass Earths last blast of light,

20/20 hindsight’s blind when my minds fight,

Might be one brain but space is tight with all of these voices.

Now here are my choices:

A.) I can simply sit and await my fate,

B.) See the possibilities for my moral mobility and take action,

or choice three,

Sit with plenty of T.H. -C.) Me, and a bag of weed,

A freestyle session to expel what my heart bleeds.

. . . .

Severe isolation

Sincere devastation.

Serendipity’s initiation took no hesitation towards pilfering pieces of already dwindling sand from my hourglass.

While her twists and turns among the butterflies already residing in my stomach,

Swirls seemingly to the jug band music of my broken heart strings,

and hollow rib cage.

But overlapping thoughts deafen me to my backcountry melancholy melodies.

Hell will freeze as soon as Serendipity finds her main squeeze,

However,

All of this is subsided as my attentions divided as I let my thoughts drift into the breeze

like late falling autumn leaves.

. . . .

Time’s lapsing,

Harassing me with every passing minute.

Infinite sand in this hourglass,

and I’m lost in it.

Intimate settings with heavy petting,

I’m forgetting.

Forging forcefully for frequent faux-paus of foreplay.

Hey,

Whadayasay…

Yay…?

Nay…?

Wanna stay?

Heads sway with dismay dismantling the repugnant pungent punch-lines.

The crunch time of hunched spines

intertwine ingenious interludes into life’s daily hell.

Within it tells of terrific,

Specific stories of glory.

Gory details of love lost in purgatory

portrays prophesies of pride prolonging pain.

Have I gone insane?

Could I strike a main vein,

and not complain about the rushing red blood I fail to retain?

As the flood finishes my daydream diminishes.

My pride replenishes

as sentences are structured with strength,

and as always

Persistence puts passiveness to pieces…

Well at least that’s my thesis.

. . . .

Infinite possibilities in this intricate strand of theoretical plausibility’s standing stagnant.

I didn’t even change direction,

and somehow I’m heading down a new path lacking shadows,

and reflections.

Through this web that we weave and wander,

too busy with little shit to pay life a visit and

ponder.

Ponder pleasantries,

ponder the proclivity of promiscuity,

or perhaps

ponder predicaments pertaining to past potholes perfectly passed.

But instead it’s pedal to the floor,

gassed and gone.

. . . .

Memories repressed into seconds.

Reality beckons lessons to be taught.

Sought out companionship,

Slipped comfortably into something unknown.

The first stone was thrown in front of your home.

Domicile desecrated.

Frustrated when self-illustrated ideas echo throughout my cerebellum

when you don’t call.

Falling for friendship as clips of encounters in clothes,

and out of clothes

enclose unchosen feelings.

Relenting remorseful repentance.

Recently remembering what you look like because I never forgot.

Forgoing though forgiveness.

Bliss became a bust,

Lust became lack luster.

Feelings mustered as somebody told me not to trust her.

Flustered as you speak to me of another.

Smothered by confusion as your illusion left a bruise and scars.

So far I’ve left my heart ajar hoping you might come around.

Profoundly I rebound the recourse of your actions,

left with little to no attraction.

Satisfaction set aside to reside in the residue of times past.

Contrasting colorful conversations

commonly contaminates certain complicated conundrums.

The sums have been totaled out of what was said,

fed dread until I couldn’t lift my head.

Undead affection for the complexion of the one before me,

Surely swerving between the line of fallacy and truth.

Everything is clear,

My calls never reach your ear.

Sneer at what’s been stated.

Elated.

Feeling deep as I seep into the heap of

Shattered

Shallow

Shadows.

. . . .

plus

She

equals

makes

US…

plus

She

equals

makes

were once in love

She

minus

S(ilent)

. . . .

Breathe.

Breathe it all in.

Inhale.

Inhale the embers into the chambers of your soul.

Let it in…

Allow the coals to cherry the wildfire within.

Where..

Who..

When..

What..

How you came about this is of no importance,

But what is important is that you let it all go.

Who is at fault for where I am now?

I am…

What will I do to find my way again when all the bread crumbs have been devoured?

Find a new direction that seems appealing rather than appalling.

Crawling on the ceiling,

ripping off my skin,

and tearing at my being.

Seeing it as it happens,

laughing as I spin out of control.

When did this happen,

and when

will I grab the wheel again?

Who cares when it went awry,

because there’s no designated expiration date

So I will make use of the gifts given by the Gods…

Gift of gab,

Graciousness,

and a Conscious Awareness,

I wear this now not to hide it.

Where will this lead?

Wherever it may,

as long as you feel the flow you’re set to go.

So just let go.

But why,

Life just laughs at me so?

Life’s not laughing,

you’re just not listening.

Glistening moonlight.

Christening this moment where movement slows,

and wind blows secrets secreting from the trees so sweetly,

to meet me where fire flickers.

Away from watch ticks,

and remote clicks.

Flicks off a Bic bring me a piece of peace…

How will I find the answers?

How…

How have you not seen the answers were there all along?

Just slow down,

sit even,

and breathe.

Just breathe it all in.

Inhale the embers.

. . . .

Instead of reveling in restlessness

And confining yourself in confusion

Simply seek out silence

And solace in solitude

Seek sanctuary

Seek self-esteem

Seek out your Self

And don’t leave without it

Ask questions that none dare to ask

Ask yourself questions that no one

Not even you would like to answer

Truth is a stranger knocking at your window

Asking for change to spare

Well, sorry, guy,

All out of change

Just time

Time to allow change

So, spare me a second and I’ll spare you some sense

. . . .

This is a final expression

The last goodbye

We haven’t spoken in months

And it’s just as difficult as the first

The first time we met

The first time we wept,

The first time we slept together without sleeping

The first time I caught you creeping into my consciousness

And the first time we said goodbye

From under heavy sighs comes a light-footed laughter

Gasping for oxygen

You take my breath away

So, I’ve grown accustomed to holding it in

While awaiting lessons to breathe

On days like these I find it hard to speak

Because the only thing I can think to talk about is you

And ghost stories should be kept for campfires

. . . .

I smoked cigarettes to kill time: Irony.

. . . .

I write rhymes to excite minds from frightful times

I write rhymes for art crimes

And sheer love of real hip hop

I write rhymes to take time and tell it

STOP

I write rhymes to entice minds over heart break beats

And stitch souls when the beat drops

. . . .

If my actions are nothing more than a blind fumbling

Then I must grow accustomed to function without the precision of vision

Without the deception of perception

Knowing the direction I step in is no exception to perfection

Half stepping cross-legged my way up the grapevine

With a dumb brilliance

Lack luster exuberance

Contemplating my existence was hilariously humorless

I’m new to this and it’s already getting old

Behold as I perform magic tricks within this world of cast shadows

Wolf in sheep clothing

Lurking amongst the plastic cattle

Trying to turn heads to see the shapes shifting on the walls

Are shady silhouettes

Spilling out from behind you

Escape the cave

. . . .

Her mouth says ‘Write me a poem’

Her eyes say more than words could implore

Hands sweaty

Corners of the page curl the way tongues do

When lips become unglued

Pen strokes the page the way eyes invite souls

When I’s no longer an infinite vowel

Because I could talk about me forever

But this poem is for you

And I need a muse to make some music

. . . .

I lie in bed

Listening to your ghost’s breath

I use the wind to pretend it’s real

But it never was

So I drift into the uncomfortable

Perfect

Silence

. . . .

Eyes are unable to deceive unlike the lies that pass between pressed lips.

. . . .

I stare into the looking glass

A backward mirrored reflection

Dripping facial expressions

Off the rippled corners of forever

I know my soul

And what it’s called

My name

Anonymous

. . . .

I asked God for answers

Response silent

I requested to walk hand in hand with the Lord

Was offered footprints in the sand to follow

Already ghost by morning tide

I questioned the Holy Spirit

A query of my own soullessness

I looked to the heavens for salvation

Became lost in the vast

Empty

Diamond freckled face of eternity

I turned my head down

From the holy throne of absence

Found God

In the puddles reflection of self

As I walk on water

I discovered life

Through the death of immortals

. . . .

The dead faces of fallen leaders corrupt your children’s souls.

. . . .

Blind to the world

I see through you

Words on deaf ears

I hear lies in your truth

Numbness like leprosy

My heart still aches

Greeted with goodbyes

Parted with farewells

An introduction in passing

Hypocritical like love

Goodbyes are never good buys

And farewells never fare well

Or are well, fair

. . . .

Call me Mr. Rogers

Aging

Grey

Actor

Flashing fake smiles

To a land of puppets

Calling out to impressionable minds

Of our generation

Lost children

The world’s not watching

So won’t you be my savior

. . . .

Their leasing your lives

These leeches of lies

Pre-seeded

So conceited

Notions of life

I’m not into this printed propaganda

Artificial articles

Stirring up sub-atomic particles

Black and white lies

That’s the nature of lies

Black and white

They lie within the letters

Are read between the lines

Follow in line

Printing press sheep scare

Keep the flock in fear

Steer them into the slaughter

In the name of Americas first born daughter

Liberty

And justice for all who can afford it

In the name of the father

The son

The holy ghosts of children and men

Sent to die for the sins of others

Smothering this motherless nation

With malev(i)olence

Father to none

Bothersome fibs drip from lips

Drooling down bibs

Gerber gestation of mashed sweet pleas

Please

Stop the presses

This present printed propaganda

Profusely probing frontal lobes

Till the masses are engulfed in blinding white lies

Slave away for freedumb

Sell your soul for free

. . . .

I gave my love a flower

She gave it back

Cracked and withered

Within my grasp

Stem snapped

The petals broke free

Into concrete feathered wings

Carrying my hopes

On the broken promises

Of tomorrow

. . . .

A weathered mind with clouds of doubt

Raining ambiguous realities

Thundering insecurities

Accompanied with flashes of confusion

The storm forms words

Carelessly draining out my spout

. . . .

My writing is a re-write of thoughts left unwritten in ink

Because what is written in blood can never be erased

It can cease to be taught

But it can never be unlearned

Knowledge is power

In the hands of those who understand

There is no such thing as control

But rather a flow

That can only be followed forward

And traced backwards

Never vice versa

It’s vice versus us

As we play the part of virtue

. . . .

Shivers tap-dance along each vertebra

In a frenzy

As guitar strings and piano keys

Express the feelings I can’t put words to

The notes denoting a dead language

Still awaiting its funeral

Flags at half mass

Bobby Fictionable 5/28/19 Bobby Fictionable 5/28/19

Uninspired

I wanna write, but…

I wanna write, but I can’t choose a topic.

I could write about Love, but that’s so cliché.

Another poem about a girl who I’ve met or tried to unmeet, and they’ll never hear it anyways.

The poem about a girl to be catalogued into a library of poems about girls.

All of them with lines along the lines of:

Your eyes are like…

Our love is like…

You are the sun…

Your voice makes me…

Sick of hearing poems like these.

I can turn on the radio and hear the same thing from 9/10 emcees.

I wanna write, but I can’t choose a topic.

So, maybe I can be the 1/10 emcees that writes a rap about how I stay strapped, guns clapped, hoes slapped if daddy doesn’t get his paper when his fingers snapped.

I can talk about my crimes in my rhymes turning the youth into walking land minds.

There’s just one problem:

I’m only toting backpack straps over the chips in my shoulder.

And, as a matter of fact, I’m scared of guns.

I only clap in a crowd for applause rather than clappin’ a crowd for a pause.

I don’t clap a piece.

I clap for peace.

So, this part is out of the question.

Maybe I could talk about money and cars and boats and jewelry, and all those other things that you think show your worth, while they only exploit your happiness.

And, I could call women hoes, bitches, tricks, skeezers, cock-teasers, and all those other derogatory terms we use to defile our mothers, sisters, and daughters.

But my mouth is already too full to fit a chauvinistic tongue.

Anyways it would still be something about the ladies, and we already decided its too cliché.

I wanna write, but don’t know what to say.

I could write about drugs and getting fucked up.

Because I know that you know that we all know we like to party.

Raise the roof…until it’s on fire…Oh, wait…

We don’t need no water, let that mothafucka burn!

Burn, mothafucka, burn!

Time to stop, Rock and Roll.

It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

But mirrors can’t see inside.

Our past has invisible wounds that stay open, and your self-esteem won’t show bruising after a beating.

The life of the Party.

I can’t be hypocritical and advise against it, but I also can’t be the devil’s advocate.

On that note about the devil, I can say I avoid politics to keep my head level.

From policies to conspiracies, communism to democracies.

They’re all just theories and I want facts.

I wanna write, but I can’t choose a topic.

Save a whale. Save a tree. Drive a car that’s eco-friendly.

Wait…Is it still “Save the whales?”

Or is it the porpoise whose purpose is in need of some saving?

I don’t know. Don’t ask me.

I don’t even know if my Chicken of the Sea is dolphin-free.

I’m too busy illegibly scribbling on dead trees.

I don’t really drive much, but that’s more because I feel claustrophobic around the idiocy of society.

It has nothing to do with being environmentally friendly.

I throw my cigarette butts out of the window right along with this topic.

Now that I’ve got my mind going, I’ve got so much to say.

It’s time to start writing, but now writing’s cliché.