To paint white lies on a white fence —
to call it kindness, in your defence.
To block out the ugly truths from
reaching your close friends —
but those blind lies keep them fenced.
A combat sport with them — _fencing,_
no mask, no stance, no discipline.
And me? I can’t claim innocence;
truth slips from me like an offence —
too sharp, too blunt, depending when.
Of the sense you say you have, it measures
less the less you choose to correct your friends.
To paint white lies on a white fence,
all in hopes to block offence — it’s art,
you say — but art that hides is just pretense.
Every brushstroke builds a wall instead,
till your kindness feels like self-defence;
painted white again and again.
A play of “offence.”
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 5:30 AM UTC
To paint white lies on a white fence —
to call it kindness, in your defence.
To block out the ugly truths from
reaching your close friends —
but those blind lies keep them fenced.
A combat sport with them — _fencing,_
no mask, no stance, no discipline.
And me? I can’t claim innocence;
truth slips from me like an offence —
too sharp, too blunt, depending when.
Of the sense you say you have, it measures
less the less you choose to correct your friends.
To paint white lies on a white fence,
all in hopes to block offence — it’s art,
you say — but art that hides is just pretense.
Every brushstroke builds a wall instead,
till your kindness feels like self-defence;
painted white again and again.
A play of “offence.”
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