There’s an element of realness to every picture I paint
its just cleverly concealed; I keep my distance this way.
By switching the names and making events
a little bit vague I maintain the pretence.
My way of addressing the thoughts on my mind
is to make a confession through the stories I write.
These forums online help with easing the burden
as the audience likes what they read in my verses.
But what they see on the surface is only a fraction
a preened and cut version I’ve chosen to hand them.
All that’s told and imagined, each juncture explored,
has a moment that happened at the crux of them all.
I’ll subtly draw from the people I know
while looking to forge an appearance or role.
Heroes and rogues, it depends on the day,
and could be on how closely our friendship is based.
My many creations are staples of this
regularly taken and tailored to fit.
Shaped and then scripted in cautionary tales
to paint you a picture as boredom prevails.
I draw from them daily, caricaturing my friends,
as all of their failings have brought me success.
I don’t normally fret over what’s said in my writing
or call into question the method behind it.
Yet there have been times when an incident’s happened
that’s echoed the rhyme in a similar fashion.
My instant reaction was one of surprise
Did I imagine it? Was it a sign?
Was it possible I could predict what they do?
There’s no logic behind it, but it was the truth.
Everything I would choose as a story unfolded
ringing as true in all its components.
I thought about posting fictional topicals next
but the audience voting were not as impressed.
I lost in the end as, sick with anger, I watched
and it’s not an option again – I’ll win no matter the cost.
By killing characters off and thinking of ways they die
until my family’s gone and I miss my creative side.
They’re victims I've plagiarized, every figure that’s played a part,
but was it art imitating life, or life imitating art?