Cold steel pressed against my tongue,
Tastebuds severed by a rough edge,
Blood comes out, spattered in slurs,
Coming out as pointless speech.
When cuts come from the blade,
The sharp edge that separates truth and lie,
I cannot begin to fathom how to react,
For I am human,
And thus am both Truth and a Lie,
And tasting a knife should cleave me in twain.
Why put on airs for myself?
Why lie about what we want to ourselves?
Isn’t all that we seek,
Someone who understands us?
Must we lie about those little things in life,
To distract us from that feeling,
That we are like Ulysses,
In that so few understand us,
And we feel a million miles away,
From those lot that do,
We gather dust and wait,
For that reader to come our way,
And some get so impatient,
That they obsess over their own word choice,
Until they get so wrapped up in their distraction,
They loose sight of what they wanted?
So why put on airs for yourself?
It’s a dangerous lie to get wrapped up in.