Bleakness, Lies
How would you know?
I could write whatever
But would you expect it to grow
Deep inside my heart,
And into my soul

Are all poems truthful,
Or as deceptive as the promise of snow
in England,
Is it occasionally true, or occasionally false?
Would anyone care if it was anything at all?

Perhaps any falsities in these creative mysteries
Are truths just hidden too deep to get to.
Sometimes the truth is bleak
And sometimes poems are made-up things with intentions to make you feel or think.