| 3.28.2007 |
| Poem .17 |
I'm gonna be real honest with you here.
Half the time I really don't know
What, or why I'm talking.
But if you listen real hard,
Maybe something might stick.
I am so full of shit
That sometimes I actually believe myself.
And I'm really, really surprised that
God hasn't struck me down yet
For pulling wool over the eyes of the entire world.
When I tell stories,
Reading between the lines isn't enough.
To get the truth you have to turn my words inside out, upside down and backwards.
Because every conversation is just one enormous cryptogram.
I see honesty as an elusive winged insect
Which, once caught, crumbles in the hand,
Losing it's beauty forever.
Because dissecting the truth and revealing the ugliness inside
Only illuminates our desire for the exquisite emptiness of lies.
So I take the truth,
Weave it seamlessly into a delicate fabrication,
Embellish it with whatever details my imagination can fashion,
And then wear my cloak of deception until it's worn out.
I call it haute couture.
But don't get me wrong.
I'm not saying I like what I do.
I hate the fact that my beauty isn't even skin deep.
But sometimes it's necessary to indulge a fantasy
When reality is just too hard to face.
I'm honest more than most people realize,
It just that hardly anyone believes me anymore.
All I can say is that this is real.
I will never lie to you in a poem.
And I know that most of the time these lines don't rhyme,
But they're mine.
And when my pen touches paper, it closes an electric circuit of genuineness
Where charged word particles surge from my brain to the page and back again.
So that the synapses between you and me seem smaller.
So that's all I've got.
And I can promise you right here, right now,
That as long as I'm here writing these words,
I am telling the absolute, unabridged truth.
You may not quite understand it,
You may not see it at first,
You may not even like it.
But it's only worth what you paid for it. |
posted by Little Red @ 4:42 PM  |
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