To my face you are kindness itself:
cheerful, always upbeat,
but in your anonymous blog
you rip me apart.
You press your thumb and forefinger on each side,
hold, pull and rend,
and rupture my very innards.
You focus on me,
my life, my words, my actions and my body
like you are a Celestron Telescope
searching for every single crater and irregularity.
With an Ultima Barlow lens
and your Leica M9 18MP
You grab each natural image
and then rearrange reality with
your precious, perversely persuasive, periscopic Photoshop technique.
poetic liberty has leased you a license to assassinate,
humiliate,
decimate,
invalidate,
severely lambaste,
and mockingly castrate
everything that I identify as me.
literary freedom allows you to liberally fabricate,
mutilate,
denigrate,
incriminate,
scathingly castigate,
and maliciously urinate
on what others think of me.
To my face you are kind beyond selflessness,
but on your online beat,
your anonymous malevolence
sets you apart
from all the others
that have ever wanted
to write me up,
put me down,
and publish me out.
— Zumwalt (2011) (used by permission from zumpoems.com)
Am I walking through Ways of Providence ?
or walking just to struggle on my own !
I am confused , also amused to sense
reality ! Am I guided or lone ?
Are pre- scheduled all the happenstances !
Am I instructed by Divine Power ?
Is there a supreme strength to embower ?
Or, I surrender to circumstances !
Does Divine Guidance fabricate my fate ?
Then life will turn purposeless - meaningless.
No use of brain -mind-soul to navigate.
Just to be flooded , careful or careless.
How can you define , what is Providence ?
It's Supremacy in your soul to stay.
On Moral Values , carry Reverence.
Ways of Providence will be shown, I say.
When Someone Wants
You Not To Worry About
What Other People Think...
They Want You To
Worry About What
THEY Think Even More!
They Won’t Admit It, Though...
(Not Even To Themselves.)
They Will Fabricate A
Magical Instant Mask
Of Benign Tolerance.
It's Pretty Though,
Real Pretty, And
NICE!
Almost Beautiful.
-Gray Squirrel
07-02-2025
I know making you less perfect
won’t make me any better
yet I can’t help it
I fabricate your flaws in my head
as if it would make my own disappear
almost as if ruining you
made me any better
…
almost as if making you imperfect
made me as perfect as you
—maybe I should learn to love my flaws instead of obsessing over yours
When your word isn't worth, the only air it traveled through,
You may quickly realize that fear and fraud don't accrue.
Then as any and all hope is halted, and faith does not exist,
The sight of all those broken promises, is there to persist.
At that point you're left upon an island, naked and alone.
With no one left to listen, no one to cast the first stone.
So now you're on your own, with your lies and disbelief,
As those you knew, now avoid you, and you're seen as a thief.
Can redemption even exist now, for all the lies that you've told?
Or has time passed right on by, while you've grown lonely and old?
These may be the final questions, to answer or even hate.
Finally seeing if you realize, you can no longer fabricate.
"I am the lattice of illumined soul that suffuses
you with the hues of divine love" - Quote by poet.
I'm a dew drop
in lattice of divine fabric.
Layer upon layer I'm so designed
with shining diverse hues,
defining the aligned strata of inner light
where my unique psychic patterns are unified
with sequins of joyful sunrise,
spreading the golden essence of euphoria.
I fabricate
motifs of uplifting feelings,
suffusing the morose mind with delight
that transcends painful times.
You need to look outside of your self to find me
poised pristine on the reclined blade of glossy grass
that has grown with glory of spring
in the meadow of love where I gleam for you bright.
I've been known to fabricate entire planets,
crafting layers of reality like a masquerade ball.
Perhaps the greatest secret I hold of all,
is that there's no clear distinction to the eye,
between my art and my life,
only a thine blurred linen
where pandemonium of existence bites,
congeals into something recognizable.
But don't quote me on that;
I change my mind with the changing tides.
Apologists Are Too Funny
Apologists have been saying for 2000 years,
Jesus will return, you can dry your tears.
But they have always been making this claim,
About the truth of Christianity’s fame.
They always fabricate a ridiculous excuse,
That’s always been considered abstruse.
But Jesus said that some wouldn’t die,
Before he returns from his home in the sky.
He was wrong and no one cares,
That it didn’t happen and their heirs,
Just keep on believing no matter the year.
These foolish souls have so much fear,
That they might be wrong and their god is a hoax.
So they keep on believing, stupid folks.
So for millennia, there’s little change,
When they offer their answers, they are unchanged.
But they’re always quick to tell you you’re wrong.
That their beliefs will always be strong.
They cannot debate and accept the fact,
And refuse to accept the failed contract.
If any other religion claimed the same,
They would say it is false and lame.
Fools and obnoxious they always become.
A waste of time, they’re just plain dumb.
How can I trust you when I can’t trust myself?
How am I suppose to give you a hundred percent of something that my mind wont allow myself to have?
I’m learning as days go by that my mind is loki and my body is a playground for him to torment and fabricate his reality.
My mind can make me go to the ER to get checked for chest pains only to reveal nothing but laughter.
Theres nothing wrong with you, I hear that voice, but loki just drowns it out and keeps me up at night thinking if I shut my eyes then that’s it!
Hungry but cant eat, tired but cant sleep, all because of my mind playing tricks on me.
So you ask for my trust, but how can I trust you when I cant trust myself
Inked Confession
Innocence stolen
Defending my elders extremism
Fields of olives, roots never sowed by me
Dagger dripping red
Inch by inch the watermelons are mine
Dancing in glee, I bury tiny white robes and red stains
Forever blind to, denying all crimes
Faded Morality
New flowers will bloom on top of Ghazi
We thieves soon to face our just reward
Their children lie buried in the ashes of sorrow, in silent grief
Insanity, Oppression, Fabricate
Insidious allusions of grandeur
offerings of the human flesh
forever, crimes inked in history
Iniquity, Oppression, Forlorn upon a childs bones
Infinity Daydreams towards Affinity
In the quiet hush of dawn's embrace,
a soft sigh escapes the mitred lips of mourn.
As delicate flower crumbles to my hand
like a sand of time, returns to it's Mother borne.
Each fabricate petal a grave-layer, a memory shed
like a piece of me,
bleeds from every stem, cell of a lost hour,
a reminisce to devour,
as the viper enters the Garden as if it were a lair,
a den of thieves that weevles a harvest
or weasels the seed. in an outbreak of Spiritual
Leprosy from the World of media zombies
of sorceries median mean,
in the perversity of being taken and letting go,
of what used to be, what if's- Garden of Gethsemane.
What if
Nature aided me and a quest begins this very Eve?
At least that's the assignment
although after several hours all I have
is oodles of doodles
on the pages of my journal
and not much else;
a word here a fragment there ~
peach/blossom/cherry/plum
each/some/barely/none
fascinate/fabricate
communicate ~
but let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth
for his love is sweeter than wild berries filled with the sun,
and suddenly I realize I know less about you
than I do this poem!
In the footsteps pacing the penultimate mile of mist,
at the edge of fading furlong of future walkway obscure,
in the twilight hour the sunset swansong resonates
for the forlorn extant being silhouetted still
against the scarlet skyline of immanent transience,
witnessing the final flicker of the dying day.
The twirling threads of turmoil entwined
with the cleaved clouds blazing in lightning gale,
crumbling the credulous horizon halcyon once.
The chameleon transformation gets transcribed
on the convoluted canvas burning in the last corner,
from the surreal chromatic flare the ashes fly away.
The shards of the splintered sky in the swirling storm,
roll on the weary waves of the curled conviction cloud.
The remnant rays of sanguinity survive still
in the flamboyant flashes of the sinking sun,
fabricate the latent lattice of the dormant dreams
in the consumed life’s kaleidoscopic last show.
Stars fashion and project,
twinkling fields of galactic dreams we fabricate,
and perfect.
Dreams can confuse
although there's times we contemplate
the muse
We rise
and meditate
... whys.
Stars fashion and project,
although there's times we contemplate,
... whys.
There once was a man named Keith with perfect lingo
‘Till an unassuming stranger changed his name to Dingo
It blew my mind
It’s so unkind
To fabricate, that he’s an ape, with me she scores no bingo!
I followed the poet thought I was on her team
The naked eye, it makes me cry, that which is unseen
She had me thinking
That he was stinking
Some poets call that feisty, but I call it really mean
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