#truthandlies
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
No heroes at the end of the world—
the true victors of war are the ones
who never marched into its jaws.
As we cut ourselves open, bleeding
for vampires dressed in flags, and their
banquet halls lit by the glow of decay.
Peasants pluck strings to soften the silence,
headlines stir the *** with trembling hands—
there's a choir of parasites spoon-feeding us
the intestines of the public.
Tell me—are you able to stomach it, or do
you swallow it whole and call it real news?
And still, the feast grows— tapeworms
engorge themselves, while the gorge between
heart and soul splits wider, and wider with every
swallowed promise. The architecture of ruin
rises brick by brick, each monument another tomb.
Love, too, becomes another empire of hunger:
crowns pressed down like executioner’s blades,
and those jewels that cut deeper than they shine.
To call someone King or Queen is to chain yourself
to their downfall, to wear loyalty like shackles,
and to find devotion rotting beneath their gold.
But here, at the end, there is only silence,
there is only dust, only the hollow crown—
and no heroes at the end of the world.
Aug 29, 2025
Aug 29, 2025 at 3:35 PM UTC
II Pet 1:9 coming to mind as I finished, lo, the complexity of this piece, and this: "...lacketh these things is blind and cannot see afar off--"
(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXCIX)
How Shakespeare's lines 'non haunt the flag's detail
As't waves to bitter winds' capricious sense
Of play, with memries of late rallies thence
In tow, as all we'd grandly strut through'd pale
Before the empty eye of hours that scale
Down what we said was living, as pretense
Leers through the smoky limelight fading hence
Where leaves pile up too thickly for aught bail.
Is't cuz I've tried 'gain to be stylish fer
What fashion and say Vogue mag swore was due,
Tae learn my peers yet scorn attempts in tour?
Cuz even when I did succeed and do
All that "they" said should be, or called too poor
What we thought tops, Death mocks as ere we knew?
07Nov18a
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC
Truth and lies
Destin to collide
Trust it died
It couldn't survive
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
If I should fall a thousand steps into your arms,
will they not wait? For I
let not Cassiopeia move beyond her throne
to encroach my bed.
Let gravity
seek its master upon my feet
and warm itself in my slippers,
carry me through curtains
and clouds of deceit to reach a haloed moon
in an airless night. If I
should wait a thousand years for a single step into your arms,
will they not open? For I
let wide the gates and fiery the oil
to relinquish the kingdom and forge
against the current into the quiet distance.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC