To tell the truth
and wound myself
and everything around me,
or sow a garden
of bullshit flowers
and smile.
Fingers rest upon the keyboard,
tongue ready to push out
victory,
or heresy.
A riddle of the world
might ask,
“If all our ties that bind
are more
truth that lies?”
Falsehoods interbreed
with truths we can see,
and over generations intermarry and seed
an inbred, bastard generation
that gets brought to their knees
by truth.
Is a lie worthwhile
if it saves a life?
What about
if it saves the world?
Is one tale
strong enough
to stand the gale
of time?
We think we know
truth when we see it,
but every day
we speak a lie
and we believe it.
Small mistruths
that get us through our day,
string moments together,
like a little piece of tape.
But they break
and we’re no longer there
to care.
Already gone on
to our next charade.
To speak the truth
is to wield a blade.
Is all truth the same?
Mine?
Yours?
Are we all to blame?
Living so many lies
every day.
Do we dare ask ourselves
to change?
Turn that knife inward
and start carving away?
What would be left of us
if we could extricate
ourselves from all of these
things we fabricate.
Would we then
have truth?
At what cost?
Can we remove
ourselves from
this part of us,
so imbued
with ourselves?
I guess I’ll start
with one truth.
One cut.
One wound.
Then another,
and one more.
I think I need to know
at my core,
if I
am truth,
or a lie.
DJR – 2023
