Shattered ties,
lying on the floor.

Like little birds,
that sing in the sky,
their necks wrung,
they sing no more.

Famous lies that we all sell like:
Life is swell,
love is good,
the world is blue,
the cross is stood.

They all rectify the appearance of a beautiful world
that has been hidden behind a maze of deep and
unsettling clouds.

A writer's mind, should be fine
if he takes the time to go outside,
but what difference is there,
in sitting in here to listen to
the world cry?

I think that I should look in a mirror,
longer than I have been,
and see myself as the liar, the cheat, the *******, that
I know I am.

Maybe then those famous lies will start to show a bit of truth.

I am not a good singer,
I am not a good artist,
I did this for fame for so long,
I've become a martyr,
and now life is even harder.