Unconfessed mortal sins...

This is my warped and deviant thinking: I believe there's no real and absolute fiction. It's reality morphed radically. And, it's almost autobiographical or semiautobiographical always -- inadvertent or deliberate. It's so -- at least in my case. In my offbeat monologic poems. In my wacky soliloquies. It's cathartic. It works just like medicinal leech. It's penance for unconfessed mortal sins. I don't know if this phenomenon is widespread universal -- or merely a personal idiosyncrasy of a schizophrenic wannabe writer like me.