Lies are beautiful,
With their assortment of colors,
Ranging from a crystalline white
To a dried blood brown-black.
From purity, for saving someone
from the pain of the truth,
to lies of pure fun,
that stains the ground we walk on.
And so I coat myself in black and blood red,
Making lies and creating fun,
Only for myself.
Or at least that’s what I’d like to think.
The pure black seems to almost
flow
like a river
out through my lips
and to everyone around me.
It’s toxic, bringing pain like flesh being
torn.
I love it.
I crave every agonizing minute
of lies that spew and grow and
writhe like a growing parasite.
A beautiful parasite of shining
black
and luxurious oily blue.
It can’t be helped to love such
mesmerizing
colors.
So here I spill
and paint the world in my ink.
The ink of lies,
And the paper the truth.
Of course, everyone wants
to fill said paper
with color.
So we spill inky lies to the ground
to create a world worth living in.
A wonderland of gorgeous, asymmetric chaos.
Lies are truly beautiful, if you see the creativity
behind the lie.
