It's too easy to be a poet sometimes.
It's too easy to get lost in the words,
To expand your vocabulary until you're in a world
So different to reality that none of the pain reaches you.
And sometimes I think my biggest shame isn't what I carry,
It's what I express onto paper and share with others.
Every metaphor is a piece of armour, metal and shimmering in the sun,
Beautiful but, most of all, protective of me.
The truth is, I wasn't attacked by shadows on walls,
Or poltergeists that wreak havoc on my existence.
The truth is, one day three men attacked me,
And I've been covering up the truth in poetry ever since.
See, if you can turn humans into gargoyles,
Twist them into these evil, mythological beings,
You can pretend it's all just written art,
And whatever the reader says is what is.
That these demons from a level of Hell so dark
That it must be located inside of a black hole,
They're creative entities whose sole purpose in a poem
Is for the reader to interpret them how they see fit.
But whenever I write about those demons, I'm not a poet.
I'm the writer equivalent of the guy getting high in his dark, lonely room,
Blocking out memories in words just fantastical enough
To pretend that nothing ever really happened.
Metaphor-less for once, but still practicing the art of doublespeak.