There is a conspiracy,

A conspiracy of originality,

Authenticity is a fairytale reality,

It no longer exists.


I want to complain of a genuine deficit,

The loss of credit and the death of “the real”.

The frame, I feel, might not be necessary,

But why is the frame at fault here?


The irony, the big cliché, is that we strayed from the path,

We fear and pick out little pieces we think we hold dear,

And then we separate and shout loudly at our computer screens saying,

“Somehow, everyone else is fake”.


The only limit of “authentic” is the definition we make,

You can’t live it by “trying”,

That’s only recognizing that it isn’t there.

The fault isn’t in the frame or the filter; it’s that we are lying.


So fuck whoever asked that question,

Fuck the guy who thinks I’m irrelevant,

Fuck whoever thinks I’m “fake”,

And fuck me for thinking that of other people. 


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