white lies,
so well remembered,
a tool first employed to salve and save,
from places, tasks, situations unasked,
to shape things the way I desired
white for they were pure
devilry,
a lie is a lie,
except for when it lets me,
my very own truth be
these white truths,
double colored black,
by and for me,
I do not deceive,
nor lie to myself
but no longer need I lie
(much),
now, write poems
where, with mortar and pestle,
grind them both up, together
the white lies and the black truths,
they are as they should be,
one and the same
my poetry,
a simple sum of both totaling
**me
For the one who gifts me titles that make poems come to be instantly...