The Mental Fictionist

Writing is my oxygen, the ink is my blood, and the pages are my life.

[fictionalinspiration]

Burning Forests

You asked me if I would ever plant a tree for you. My answer is no. Nor will I water it with my salty tears, or tend to it year after year and eat the fruit it bears every harvest in your memory. There's no sanctity, nothing to celebrate, and no thanks to give. And I won't use its bark to build a house for our kids so they can come home to you every night. I won't rake its leaves just so the dog can jump in the pile as he plays with you one last time. I will never fake a smile and watch everyone pretend like this isn't the end of the most beautiful thing in our lives.

Don't ever ask me to watch you die slowly from the inside. I won't let you take yourself hostage and hold the woman I love for ransom, I won't give in to your inner demon's demands because he doesn't compare to the hell I'd endure without you because he's not just taking you with him, he's taking the best parts of me, too.

You go, I go - that's the deal we made when we signed our names on the dotted line of this relationship; a contract that doesn't expire until our bodies reach their physical limit even though aging and thinking about the future scare the fuck out of us, it will never not be too soon to lose you. I refuse.

So no, I won't plant a tree for you. Promise you'd tell me the same if I ever asked you to.

[buttonpoetry]

Nora Cooper - “I Won’t Write Your Obituary” (CUPSI 2015)

“I don’t want your ripped off skin, a blanket to wrap myself in when I need to feel like you’re still here. You won’t be there. There’s no blood there, there’s no life there, there’s no you there. I want you.”

Performing for UCLA during prelims at the 2015 College Unions Poetry Slam Invitational. Subscribe to Button on YouTube!

[fictionalinspiration]

She Sees Me

I love the way she shoves me down on the bed. Our heads

spinning, with sweetness between the sheets beginning.

 For the first time someone unbinds my mind and the release is sublime as the line

  between not close enough and too far blur. Something inside me stirs, awakened by her.

She makes me feel free, at ease. Effortlessly. As she teases

 my body with hers, clothes lurk upon the barrier which irks

The process of lovemaking. Forsaking all foreplay, debating on how to properly move forward. Painstakingly

transferring clothes from body parts to the floor; it commences as skin finally meets skin. The sweet sin of the flesh. One thrust and it's in, and it begins;

 unwilling to let each other escape until the act of fulfilling

has been completed for both sides. With us both exposed, nothing hides.

 All the scars, all the secrets and marks, all the shame and the walls and the dark

alleyways of memory we both long to forget. No regrets. No experiments. No rules to set. No requirements met.

 Nothing exists but this moment and the atonement

that follows as we each fill each other's hollow

 hearts, and the parts

 of ourselves that have been shattered, scattered,

abused and warped, twisted and morphed.

 Yet the solidifying, the detoxifying,

 has never been so painless or shameless.

 Her eyes meet mine as the lines

of reality start to reappear. She's still here and her face shows no fear, and I can hear

 her breath harden, and her heart beat. She's my ecstasy. She makes me complete.

[fictionalinspiration]

The 10 Steps of Friendship

One. We meet. A while later, we start talking. Later still, we discover that the term “soul-mates” doesn't just apply to the romantically inclined.

Two. She discovers just how extensive the vocabulary of a poet really is and how easily I can make her melt in the palm of my hand with a simple Limerick and the emphasis of my Irish accent. Two. She has a soft spot for linguistics.

Three. I dive into the depths of her intelligence and swim for miles and miles until my arms and legs give out, so I lie floating, surrounded by her knowledge and the way she views the world. Three. She can satisfy the appetite of my sapiosexual side with just one conversation. One fathomless, substantial, wonderful, endless conversation.

Four. We go into bookstores together and don’t come out until we’re threatened to be arrested by security after having already purchased seven different books. Each.

Five. We spend nights at her house where she introduces me to her movie collection. I introduce her to Broadway movie-musicals. Five. We spend nights at her house. Five. Her house feels like home.

Six. We travel together. We backpack through Europe together. I take her to Ireland and introduce her to my family.

Seven. We weekly "adventure” from evening until dawn, driving and talking  with either that school-girl coy attitude or the feeling of the deep life thoughts you have in the shower until we find something interesting or run out of gas or one of us falls asleep. Seven. She lets me drive her car.

Eight. I write her a poem for her birthday. She kisses me on the cheek. I can smell the beer on her breath.

Nine. We move in together. Nine. She gets a boyfriend, I get a girlfriend. Nine. We’re both single. Nine. We’re both getting married to different people. We’re each other’s best man at our weddings.

Ten. Our partners have died, so we’re alone together again. Ten. I hold her hand as I help her get ready for bed while the male Hospice nurse fetches her medication. Ten. She still feels like home.

[buttonpoetry]

Javon Johnson - “Building” "I just want someone to love me hardest when i least deserve it." Performing at the Ill List 2014. Subscribe to Button on YouTube!

[fictionalinspiration]

Bright Lights, Wide World

He watches the world go by as he lays in his mother's arms. The bus lights go out; the brightness of incoming headlights penetrate the darkness. His body little and his age unknown, it's difficult to discern how much and what exactly he can see. His head turns and his eyes follow strangers, an indication that he can process images, or perhaps mere sounds accompanied by blocky, dark, unfamiliar shapes.

He cries out and his mother cradles him, searching for a bottle in the diaper bag kept by her side. She feeds him and he is calm. His father sits next to them holding the stroller in place. His face is hard while the mother's seems to convey a sense of confusion, tiredness, and frustration all at once. The baby the only seemingly peaceful thing about them.

After his bottle is empty, he begins to babble and move his arms about in hopes of capturing his mother's attention. She stares off into the distance, perhaps daydreaming of another life, a better life than the one she has made for herself.

She looks over at her husband and asks him a question in a foreign language. He shakes his head. The baby cries out again, and the mother adjusts their position before returning the bottle to his mouth. He cries uncomfortably, and she lets him stand on her thighs for a burping. Successful, he remains standing, his tiny hands gripping his mother's leather jacket for support as the bus breaks. His little eyes follow the traffic whizzing pass outside the window as the bus moves again, the lights illuminating the darkness fascinating him. He smiles, and is rewarded with a hundred little kisses from his mother. 

She cradles him again. Sleepiness creeps into his big, brown liquid eyes but the excitement of new lights, new sounds, and new movement keeps him awake. He yawns as the bus pulls into their stop. 

The father is the first to get off, setting up the stroller. Mother and son follow, and the son is placed into the stroller that is padded with warmth to fight against the cold night wind. The parents walk north, side by side as their baby boy finally succumbs to sleep.

[fictionalinspiration]

Moring Watch

Sleep deprived, zombie-like, as mindless as air and as mechanical as the gearshifts of a manual transmission.

Some have a spark in their eye or a bounce in their step; although panic, fear, and frustration also litter the sea of faces but the most palpable is exhaustion as the line to the caffeine addiction starts ten minutes before the first batch can be cooked.

He sits alone, music spinning in his head as his eyes survey the crowd around him, watching the goings-on of the student body en mass.

His addiction something more intellectual than chemical, intensely more rewarding than a drug fix. An open book ay before him, filled with anything that crosses his mind; observations, thoughts, ideas, any words that flow together in just the perfect way. All written from the same corner of the same crowd, preferring to draw from the inspiration that lies on the outskirts of his self-induced social isolation where the rawness of human nature polarizes.

[fictionalinspiration]

What he lacks in structure, he makes up for in subject matter and presentation.

[fictionalinspiration]

The One That Got Away

Remind me why we can't try this again. Now that we know what's at stake, we won't make the same mistakes and if we do, we're done for good, the end. But at least we'll know what could have been because this "what if" game is killing me silently, zapping my strength and my energy. I'm convinced that you hate me because the last time we talked, that's all you said. I was young; I didn't know how to use my head. I was a boy then, ignorant and stupid back when our love was so elusive and by the time we pinned it down and captured it, I killed it before it had a chance to live. I pursued the wrong person, chased the wrong thing and since then, no one's been fit to be the Queen to my King. We had the power to rule but I didn't belong on the throne. I was meant for the court cuz I was a fool for letting you go and letting our love die. And ever since, I've forgotten what it feels like to fly. You were the air under my wings, you gave my heart a reason to sing, you were everything I loved about myself... now I feel hollow inside this shell.

I don't expect you to take me back; what I did is unforgivable. But the fact that when you go ask our old friends how in love we were... and they didn't expect it to end...

why let it? After all this time, I know it's hard to reopen those wounds because they remind you of all the pain, but you have to bleed in order to heal. And I'll concede to every law you lay down, every rule you place, I'll even walk on eggshells to slow down the pace so we don't go too fast and make the same mistakes. One step forward, one word is all it takes.

I don't expect you to love me, or even feel the same. We can even start over if you want - fresh clean slate. Here, I'll start: Hi, my name is Sam. See? Easy as that. I promise, I swear this time I won't leave you flat. My heart still aches when I hear your name, I still smile when I see your face in your... in our old pictures. They're like a time machine or a still frame straight off the silver screen. We weren't a fairytale couple... we never got that far but I'd like to think that if we had, we'd have set that bar pretty damn high. But I never got the chance to call you mine.

I want to believe that you think about it too; how we used to be. The mind can be so cruel as it replays all the memories inside your head over and over, and you can't escape and you feel like your heart and soul are dead. But if you don't think about it, I understand. I deserve far worse, and it's all part of whatever plan someone or something out there has for my life. I'll just have to settle for a future where you're not my wife. Maybe I'll find someone else to fill that role but you're irreplaceable. I hope you know how truly sorry I am and how much I regret what happened. This is the one and only debt I have that I can't ever pay.

That's it. I can't think of anything more to say, except thank you for giving me this chance. Now our future rests in your hands.

[desolationsuperfund]

Damn. 

[fictionalinspiration]

This needs more views.

[fictionalinspiration]

The Work Of A Lifetime

I can rhyme words without a rhythm but as soon as I try, I keep losing the feeling. So I've learned to let them flow, let 'em roll off my tongue - or in this case my pen - so I can let everyone know what I'm thinkin' and take you all on a journey to the inside of my mind where you can meet all my thoughts, demons, and secrets. I hide behind my words because my voice isn't enough. I've spent years building up my image to seem tough- er than I may actually be. because being weak has always scared me cuz I'm not supposed to ask for help. I'm a man, damn it, I can take care of myself! Isn't that what being a man means? Havin' the means to survive anything while everyone leans on you cuz your shoulders are so broad that they've nicknamed you Atlas when in reality you're just tryin' to map out this journey called life and just get yourself through all your own strife, never mind helpin' everyone else face theirs. Everyone has their own cross that they bare.

See, I can let you in on all this with my words and never my voice because in all honesty, I've never had much of a choice. Words just flow through me; they always have ever since I was old enough to grasp the language and master it like a craft. English was my best subject, always paid rapt attention to sentence structure and grammar. I felt like I was gettin' hit in the head with a hammer but I kept hittin' the nail on the head and that's what eventually lead my mind to this ease with which I write and half the time, I don't even remember doin' it. I lose sight of everything after the pen hits the page and the ink starts to flow, it's almost like I don't know who I am anymore. And then I show it to someone and they're like, "Damn, you got some serious skills, man!" I know they'd never lie, but it's hard for me to believe that someone like me could ever achieve such a high level of praise. (My self-image has always been shrouded in haze.) But the weird thing is that when I write, I feel free and I feel like I can actually be the true me and express myself the way I've always wanted to. I can escape from the daunt-ing reality in which I live. All my struggles and fears melt away and I can finally say anything and everything I want to say with no filters and nothing to hold me back and no one's here to call me out. I can't catch any flack because here I am king, here I rule, here I am safe and protected from the cruel and cold and dark and miserable world. My pain and secrets here can unfurl with no penalty, no rejection, no judgement. I submit to no one and no one submit- s to me. If you enter my world, you are free to be free.

My words speak for only myself but you'd be surprised at how many people they help. I'm not here to seize power, start a movement or overthrow anyone. I'm just telling you the truth that I know. Everyone's story deserves to be told whether it starts from rags and ends with gold, vice versa, or something in between, everyone has some "behind-the-scenes" footage not everyone else always gets to see. I'm sharing mine with you so you can know the real me.

This is the power my words have always possessed. They capture you, they captivate you. I'm obsessed with finding just the right word or the right phrase to convey exactly what I mean. I can struggle for days over a sentence, a paragraph, even single one word. It sounds absurd, but that's just how my mind works. I like to think of myself as an artist, not yet a master. Maybe I'll never get to that point, and that's fine with me. I'm not after the fortune or fame or even the title. This is just something that helps me survive. I'll always keep writing, it's what's in my soul and through my work, my story will be told. As long as I'm alive, I'm gonna keep at it, and I'll only get better cuz like anything, it just takes practice.

Each piece I write only helps me grow and helps keep the flow of creativity going as the pen glides across the page. The day that I run out of things to say will be the day I lay my pen to rest and my final words will state how I've done my best to make people laugh, to entertain, and to give people hope and help them find a way to cope with whatever circumstances that have caused them strife because writing has given me one hell of a life. I gave people strength in their hour of need, perhaps when they were mere minutes away from admitting defeat. I've connected with people that I'll never meet. When you think about it, that's actually pretty neat. But, at last, my ink has run dry and so, with a weary yet satisfied sigh, I convey my deepest thanks to all who have helped me keep balance where I thought I'd fall. And to all of those I have helped to inspire, it's all of you whom I truly admire. I am the mechanic of the car you drive; you have allowed me to see my work come to life. For that, I am humbled and truly grateful and when we finally do meet, I'll save you a place at the table so that we may connect and talk in peace about how you pumped life into the heart I buried within loose-leaf.

[fictionalinspiration]

Internal Affiars

Do you think that I killed myself? Not the me that you see but the me who used to be, the me you never got to meet. The "she" part of me. The former me.

Do you think that's possible? That because I thought and I think that the physical me isn't who I want to be, that I killed an innocent, beautiful girl who never got to show the world who she really was and what she could do?

Does that scare you? Cuz it scares me. I'm not a killer, I'm not a murderer but I'll confess that sometimes I still hear her in the back of my head like a ghost under the bed, and I've memorized the words she says, "No matter how hard you try to erase me, I'll always be part of you. Your history, your past, you yourself would have never come to pass if it wasn't for me. So go ahead and bleed after you take that box cutter to your chest and cry about what a mess you've made because now, there are two lives at stake."

I've tried to kill myself. Several times. But whether it was her that controlled me or me that controlled her, I can't say cuz we share the same mind. I've realized that she's part of me after all. It's hard to admit, but I take the fall when I'm wrong. She may not be who I want to be or who I am but if she had a body of her own, she'd deserve a chance. It's intense to separate who I am from who I was to whoever I'll become. Some fall apart, some march on, some take a little extra time. The girl on the inside deserves to shine and if I could, I'd let her. I can't. I can only give her this letter and say, "I'm sorry for trying to kill us both. Now you give me hope cuz you've made me see that leaving behind part of yourself makes you incomplete. It doesn't make you free."

[fictionalinspiration]

Ode (To Educators Everywhere)

Speaking for others has never been my style, but I promise you reading this will be worth your while.

I feel the need to apologize for something that isn’t my fault. What else can you do when your world comes to a screeching halt or when you see the people you care about get burned and scarred?

Above all else, it makes you realize just how hard the so-called “real world” can be so don’t ever think, “This can’t happen to me.” because no matter how good and no matter how strong you think you are, there’s always room for something to go wrong and it may not be your fault and others might be blameless, but what matters is how you treat people and just how heinous the crime really is, what’s been disrupted, and how you can solve it; do everything you can, don’t just shove it in a closet.

When your career’s motto is “Lead By Example”, how do you expect others to react and to handle the same situations that you have faced if you can’t offer them criticism that’s also laced with confidence and with guidance? Without those things, how can students ever be their finest?

What you may not realize is that we look up to you and try to emulate exactly what you do. No matter how high and no matter how low the age range is, your experience shows and that’s what propels us to be as successful as you, even if we don’t end up doing the same kind of work that you do.

Everyone has their mentors and guides that have helped them along the way and to be honest, you’re the reason why we all have stayed as long as we have because at the end of the day we know that your job is not easy; hard times have fallen on all, making us queasy with a sense of brokenness and disconnect produced by behavior that some might deem suspect.

The reason for this is not a critique, it’s merely being used as a technique in which to appeal to your sense of duty and to reveal something that not a lot of us openly share and that is the message that we all actually truly care about what happens to you and your jobs because without you, all the odds would be against us and no one would believe in us, our potential, or what we can achieve.

So thank you from the bottom of our hearts for going above and beyond and giving us a head start on developing the tools with which we can achieve our hopes, our goals, and all of our dreams.

[fictionalinspiration]

Shattering the Silence

Do or die, fail or try; either way, you don't have a choice unless you want to live life with a voice silenced by others who would rather live in fear than open up their minds and hearts to hear what you have to say and the good you can do.

The bottom line is people are afraid of the truth because truth means reality, truth means progress, truth means change and people are afraid to step outside of their cage, breathe in the air, and see the world because they think that somehow, all their fears will unfurl.

People will fear for their lives and think they're under attack but truth never behaves like that. Truth is a pure blank slate devoid of hate much like a child when they're born; we project beliefs on their innocence, only for them to be scorned as they grow up and are ridiculed for what they've been taught because they never thought for themselves that the truth should be sought, and that questions should be asked: How can we learn if we don't study the past?

I don't want to be misunderstood: believe what you will - that's all well and good - but don't shut yourself off to another's beliefs; remember your gain is the cost of someone else's defeat.

The point of being human is to be social and share, to spend our lives together, to grow and to care, to leave behind a world in which our children can survive, but how can we if new ideas constantly die?

If you have something to say - speak up, don't be afraid, and don't let anyone lead you astray from what you believe and what's in your heart, change works out well for those who are quick, clever, and smart to adapt and leave themselves open, the future is an ocean full of endless possibilities, let others take advantage of all the facilities available to help make the world a better place because at the end of the day, we're all part of the human race. Future generations will look to us to lead the way, and when they ask your advice, what will you say?

[fictionalinspiration]

(Anxiously) Floating

This stress triggers my anxiety because I can't handle you being mad at me for any reason. It makes me nervous, "Do I really deserve this?" or is my mind just ten steps ahead of reality? It might be. Probably. But I can't help it, it's just the way I operate when we congregate all the facts and lay them out flat, "How dare you accuse me of that!" but then I remember that the conversation is with myself and not with you. Hell, I can't focus long enough to present an argument, a defense, a counter-statement... no, wait, gone again. My ADD turns my attention span into a ladybug's wingspan, my stomach's in knots, my gaze drops to the floor as my heart pushes blood through my limbs, my sight dims - tunnel vision beginning with no light at its ending. I start shaking, scratching, snapping, biting, grinding, pinching, anything to release this nervous energy pulsing through me. I'm focusing on you to bring me back to safety because this fight isn't worth losing you. We'll make it through some way, some how because you are my ground; without you, I'm left floating.

[fictionalinspiration]

The Raven

Far beyond the evergreen tree Does the raven fly High above the mountains tall Where his harbors lie.

He knows no trouble nor pain Nor the labors of human skin, Merely a vessel of human soul; Absolution from all sin.

He spreads his wings, conquers flight, Absorbs life and inhales; release. He knows naught else but to soar As far as the eye can see.

Far beyond the evergreen tree Does the raven fly High above the mountains tall And the rivers wide.

High into the open air, Glory - a breath of flight! As he becomes one with the sky, Gasps of awe become delight.

Freedom of flight is freedom from Everything earth and bound. Only when all other faculties are lost Can liberation be found.

Loneliness ne'er follows, Several nests lay along his trail. Never long does he linger For onward he must sail.

Far beyond the evergreen tree Does the raven fly As long as he has wings to soar, He will never die.

[fictionalinspiration]

Lazy Day

   The morning light broke through the curtains and bathed her skin in odd patterns of shadows. I traced them across her skin with my fingertips, careful not to wake her. Her breath came slow and steady and as I watched, I couldn't control the smile that escaped my lips. I tucked a free strand of red hair behind her ear and wondered what sort of dream she was having and if I were in it. Not that it made a difference; I'd be here when she woke.

   She stirred, rolled over and rested her head on my chest and sighed. I chuckled silently and wrapped my arms tightly yet gently around her. I kissed her forehead and felt her heartbeat increase along with the rhythm of her breath. She buried her face in my neck and wrapped herself around me. I held her tighter and was rewarded with a kiss.

   "Good morning sleepyhead," I whispered. She moaned happily and kissed my neck. "How'd you sleep?" She kissed my lips before resting her head in the middle of my chest. I ran my fingers through her hair and traced down to her chin. I caressed her face and she looked up at me, her emerald green eyes shining as they reflected the sunlight. I leaned down and kissed her lips. She melted into my arms and we laid there peacefully together.

   "What shall we do today, love?" "Nothing," she murmured sleepily. I smiled as I traced circles on her back with my first two fingers. "Do you want some breakfast?" "No." "A shower?" She shook her head against my chest. "We can't just lay in bed all day." "Yes we can," she mumbled. I laughed and started playing with her hair. "You're not allowed to leave the bed." I chuckled. "Oh no?" "Nuh-uh." I grabbed her and started to move her off me. She threw her arms around me tightly and refused to let me go. I pulled more. "No! Stop!" I laughed as I rolled us over and laid on top of her. "No fair!" she pouted. I kissed her cheek but she was till pouting. I kissed her forehead, her chin, he nose then finally her lips. She locked her arms around my neck and returned the kiss. My hands found her waist as my lips moved to her neck.

   She bit her lip and tried to push me away, "No, baby." I smiled and whispered in her ear, "You said I'm not allowed to leave the bed." She dug her nails into my back. "Yeah, but I didn't mean"- I bit her neck gently and she moaned. I smiled as I kissed my way down her neck to her chest. I laid my head over her heart and I felt her run her fingers through my hair, lightly scratching my ears as she did so. I rested my chin on her stomach and looked up at her smiling.

   "What?" I shook my head. "What are you smiling about?" She dropped her hand to my cheek and I turned into her palm, letting my lips linger on her skin. I nuzzled my nose into her hand and met her eyes. She smiled as her cheeks turned red. "You're blushing." "Hm?" "You're blushing." I tilted my head and smiled, kissing her fingers and keeping our eyes locked. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "No I'm not." I nuzzled my nose into her fingers, still keeping our eyes locked. I kissed the back of her hand, all the way up her arm, her shoulder and finally her neck. This time, she didn't refuse.