I sometimes wonder where
The words come from. It must be
A fine cloth woven with truths,
With hopes, and maybe a little
Exaggeration. But that’s what
Makes it perfect. That’s what
Holds it all together. Yet things
Creep in, lies taint the cloth,
Unraveling the threads that bind it.
It becomes nothing more than a
Pile of words thrown together
Hoping to fool the unsuspecting
Reader into thinking it’s something.
I’d much rather weave than pick
Up the broken pieces.