We are so inundated in fictions, That we overlook, there are facts as well. Facts which we disregard For fictions intrigues us They please us more than anything Building idealogues rupturing to distresses Yet, you simply go on. Till it causes to scrutinize oneself. What is it now? For what reason, right? Why with me? Everytime? Fictions are fractions of our feelings of trepidation. Insecurities hidden beneath, The sheer confidence you portray. Your mind struggles with, What if's? And the answers it provides with, Should Have's. Self subverting takes birth all the while. Fictions are factions. Factions of your stifled negativities. Your Desires. And disappointments while not satisfying them. What you do now? Severely loathe. And let it come over, once and for all. Let it expend you. Mope you. Beat you to the dust. And then leave you to the facts. The facts you overlooked long back. Remember? For they are your genuine companions. Not fictions. Fictions without facts are mere dictions of cruelty.