Not all pretty words
are lies.

Some are but mere veils,
itching for a soothing touch
upon a poet's burning soul.

And when those layers of words
upon words are unveiled,
(if one dares to)

know that underneath all
that rubble, one last hiccup
is being taken.


Not all pretty words
are lies.

Some are but mere longings
and fantasies; a kingdom
of smoke a poet builds, where
inky demons prowl and
leave footprints.

And when all that
mist is dissolved, with
naked truths dangling mid-air,

know that beyond that fallen
kingdom, a poet lies broken,
yet half - mended.


Those pretty words, the only
companion in a completely
unsimplistic world.