of

Pursuit of Happiness

Pursuing happiness in all its glory
has become dead, habitual satisfaction.
Scraping for a vein of sense,
the young man sees only himself—

in all his glory,

bloody and gory,
overwhelmed by lack of inspiration, hope,
chasing fallacies and the like,

tense,

he feels his mind
deleting itself.

Yet, everyone remains silent, still,
copasetic, unmovable in front of
dull gray light,
their concern is drained
and intelligence
paralyzed.
Undeniable masses cling to their screens of hope,
the new acceptable dope that all abuse, reuse,
despite the perpetual void tinted by numbness.
Lauding fictitious figures of whom fallacy engulfs,
our brethren grasp, gasping for new air,
lost for eternity without creativity in labyrinth.

The dream is gone,
placed on a bill.
Sensational sensations felt by all, but not
created by all.
Though wait,
a spark of reason, although ever so blasé,
everything accounts for nothing.
All you see, all you are is a fiction
of your own imaginative reality.

Authority takes control to grant security while
enveloping the dreams of the aspirer,
forever doubting idiosyncrasies
of which I embrace daily,

maybe,

‘tis the way of society,
doubtful as it stands,
embracing normality and screens of absence.
Absent mindedness is the social norm,

taught for decades.

Feel the cascades wash the world away,
the apocalypse is coming.
The end is nigh, belief is irrelevant.
For when he arrives,
finally,
it ends,
but not in fire

nor in flood,

in the mind,
our most feeble frailty.

-Ryan K. Fuller

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Consequences of Complacence

I come from a land ravaged by suburbia

and pillaged by consumerism.

Savage businessmen wielding briefcases bursting with misery—

documents and papers detailing the death of society,

the rise of tyranny and bureaucracy,
the reign of money.

The fame of capitalism reeks of concrete and iron,
chemical cleansers and emporiums of oil drums.

Industrial war guns beat the rhythm of the new society,
give the view of this despondency,
this chaotic wreck of a failed experiment
somehow managing
to perpetuate itself,

still able to infiltrate ourselves and be absorbed

by that impetuous sponge,
that inherently bilious,
developed ambitious
mass of empiricism,
reasoning imperialism as logical and somehow making capitalism

suitable,

dressing the able in suits,
putting the apes in cages for entertainment on weekends when their boss says,
“Take the day off.”

The suits rip their identity asunder and indulge at their pillaged lands as a vacation

just to go back on Monday and repeat the process.

An assemblage of machine gears and levers automate the system,

driven by goals and future-mindedness,

unconscious sustainment of egoism,
despite the conflict,

regardless of intuitive compulsion reasoned as abhorrent by specialized experts.

I without me is revolt.

‘Tis the purity gleaming through prisms producing vast vibrancy—

breathtaking beauty leaves me lightheaded,
discordant with this SHIT propagated by elected leaders,
collective breeders of ideas and identities,
destroyers of loving societies.

An intoxicating smog fills our lungs with stable satisfaction,
or at least adequate apathy to leave us complacent,

but carrying the catarrh,

coughing up blood and tar,
emitting exhaust like a diesel truck.

Poisoned by our own action, a different course must discernibly be followed,
perhaps no course at all, but the presence of just one essence:
Love

-Ryan K. Fuller

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Vale of Life

I walk through the forest of my haunted past,
Not knowing whether to turn or be stead-fast.
My heart cries out in the darkness of my shattered mind,
Crying for that which I desperately seek to be mine.
I glance at the path I’ve traveled in these long and dismal times
And see there my broken and shattered heart lie.
I have had none in my arms ever to cause such pain,
But this pain comes from watching love go away.
Seeing my love with someone for whom they are poisoned by,
Crying out to save you from then, but all you do is stare and then.
You vanish in the blackness that my eyes may only see,
You standing there in all this confusion which I long to be,
Long to be a part of something to give me just a little glee.
For throughout my life no light was there,
Not one little light as warm or as cold as yours.
For with you I am happy,
Happier than a pure dream.
But without you I am dying,
Fallen Dead face first in amidst the smiting.
So I cry for my loss, as well as your own demise,
But I know that you are blinded, by a lover has-been.
You cling for you fear no one else will love you,
But you are wrong you see.
For I love your laugh, your smile, and even your quiet cry.
I love you for being you, and not just for your falls.
I bring with me an ember, an ember with which I see,
All that you could be, with or without me.
But as you sit with the poison, you accomplish nothing as he wants
Sitting, wasting in your silence, as I cry out from the mist.
If only you would know this, and come and sit with me.
Maybe then we could be, all we’re meant to be.

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