by Tilok Adnan
I've been living a lie
telling other of my
world within a world
where I am the proud
creator, but not so
much that you'd find
an ounce of interest
in me. My imagination
may be vivid, honed
patterns through reasoning
combine the illogical
shapes, things, places
to form unimaginable
escapes and lanes of
unseen what-nots, secrets
I've kept and told you
you're no good for, or
you won't understand
but I say this without
any knowledge of all
that you've seen in
your travels. I feel
inferior, inadequate
about how you crouch
over my face to let
me know you've been
there and done that and
honestly I don't care.
because I've always
liked my screens and
my paper, my canvases
on which I paint
the world my way
but even then I am
overshadowed by masters
who say I need more
exposure to the world
and this with time turn
my canvases too white
indiscernible as a result
of my inability to be
better than them and
you! Fucking hell, maybe
I'm just a dumpster and
when you take off my lid
all you'll see are
crumpled paper, acetate
bags full of them
enough to give you a
smirk and enough for
me to know I am
trash, waiting to be
poured clean of all my
bullshit ideas of grandeur.
There are no dragons, no
mystic lands, no future
driven dystopia, no lore
only a wasteland large
with landfills and here
and there ugly monkeys
from my past who all
rummage through piles
of used ideas and play
them like a puzzle
every night trying to
see what fits what
which fits which, see
sometimes things form
a glitch and sometimes
fathomable contraptions
closer to things I have
seen on TV or read in books
hoping that doing this
long enough will lead
to the discovery of
something nu. some thing
by which to impress,
inter alia the world, and you.
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