Really every lie

does need a decent wardrobe --


of nice eloquence.

“I walk into a room,
someone pats a chair beside them.
I don’t look them in the eye,
but admire their brown loafers.
‘How are you, kiddo?’
Her voice is sincere.

‘Good.’
I lie.

I walk into a room,
she pats the chair again.
This time, I sit down.
Her trousers have a stripe.
‘How are you, kiddo?’
Her voice is soft.

‘I’m okay.’
I choke back.

I walk into a room.
she pats the chair like usual.
I look up carefully,
she has the slightest lines.
‘How are you, kiddo?’

‘I don’t know.’
I recognise my own face.”

A.V.

My fingers unfold the truth
on a late night poem
in a different country
than my own–
between two black cars
a street light,
wine,
beer,
and
hard drugs

untold white lies
        
        Do you know what's really hard?

         Trying to make something beautiful or ugly
          out of a lie.
      
            This is me now
talking to the reader
or probably talking just to myself:
                   There's a hole in the Earth of me
                   my tooth has a cavity
                   I have a man
                   who can't keep
                   the truth in his pants
his mouth
gets real happiness
when he can bend
what's real and what
he wants me to know
which takes away any real
chance at happiness
                                             the only real
                                             way I can
                                             find out the lies
                                             is by picking
                                             up pennies
                                             that lead down
                                            a trail
                                             to girls,
                                                     coke,
                                                        hash, and
                                                         attention
                                                           seeking,
                                                     rocks
                                                 and a hard
                                              place.

There I go again
trying to make
poetry
out of tears,
and an untrusting heart.

                                   He makes
                                 amazing poetry.
                               about nights he's lied
                             keeping it hidden
                         in metaphors
                      and grandiose statements
while I applaud and like each write.
                
                          I'm ******* stupid
                         that's probably why
                         he says he likes
                         me as much as he does

You think about
the times
when your gut told you so
or the other times
when you ate it up
like drinks and fine dining

                              Now you forget to smile
                             and things you wouldn't
                             think would connect dots,
                             begin to.

My breast hurt
and I feel a panic attack
is at the bottom of this bottle of beer

Now I can say
I didn't make a poem
cause these are just words
on a page

I hate it when people look behind bright smiles;
when they look at the underpainting of my heart
and find that there’s nothing behind my laughter
but empty white that lacks dream or purpose
and was only born to remain hidden.

The allusion we perform
So that people perceive us
The way they want

what is this game
you wish to play?
what is this thing
you take away?
you want my light?
to feed your darkness
you want my love?
to feed me lies

you take everything.
and give nothing in return.

you’re nothing but a thief

thief.

My eyes, throbbing with agony,
bore through the window,  
desperately seeking the freedom of sky.  

To my surprise the crabapple tree  
possessed joyous magenta flowers,  
providing an unexpected  
jubilant assault of my mind.  

Lush leafy erratic branches,  
a turmoil of spring beauty  
stood in striking empathy of my silent cries.  

The afternoon sun pales the majesty of magenta.
As only love can pale agony.  
Memories live forever, is a haunting horrible lie.  
Unlike me, those magenta flowers don't need a why....

My love for her will never die.  
The majesty of those magenta flowers,  
if only for a moment, seizes and saves me deep inside.