Inconsistent Fiction - Poem

Oh, yet, another narrative instance,

For those possessing intuitive minds.

Oh, yet, another famously retold tale,

Of adventurous and astounding times.

Those dreams of saving others from what prowls in the dark,

Of marvelous places, shadowed lands, and love remarked,

Those dreary lands in which we wish to land ourselves,

In order to throw ordinance from our lame hands.

Fiction speaks the words from the mouths of the lost,

Of those who pray to deities that they’ll be remembered,

And though we are but self-conscious specks,

Convinced that in phenomena is our lives measured.

Oh, the pretentious and continually standing calamity,

Of living in need of constant reassurance,

That we are worthy of such praise and recognition, to be reminisced,

Because of the tales that have been spoon-fed to our lamenting ears.

It is simple to see how such unadorned reason,

Can be used to explain our unbreakable addiction,

For it gives us hope that we may be but more,

And that we are worthy of such fiction.

So this goes out to those who are broken,

So this goes out to the ones who drown themselves, their lives,

In the bittersweet worlds of fictitious tales, because

We are smart enough to see that it is worse to ground our minds.

So this goes out to those who keep dreaming,

So this goes out to the ones who live, eat, and breathe

For the next copy of their favorite, while binding tale,

That keeps them on their unsteady feet.

So this goes out to the ones who can no longer wish,

So this goes out to those who have died inside,

Because they have ultimately been unable to deal with the realization, 943Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3lV57O46a4

That their dreams and hopeful works of fiction had lied.

But most of all,

This goes out to the ones who continue to be caught,

In the endless and habit-forming web of aspirations,

Because the lies cannot soon enough be un-taught.

For still is fiction our melodious escape,943Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6wGgWaRAe0

From the dull and everyday mundane,

For fiction such that we have wished upon ourselves,

Does prove us all, quite willingly, insane.

Our insanity provoked, 943Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNWxC7Azjs8

By fiction, lies, and hearts been broke.

Our insanity to be covered,

by beauty and tales, and wonder.

So this goes out to the dreamers.

So this goes out to the lovers.

So this goes out to those who refuse to cease celebrating,

Because while the story is not real, the satisfaction is,

For how boring would our life be,

Without this little bit of insanity to dwell upon?

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