This is not about you
This is not about me,
This ain’t really ‘bout anyone-y, honey;
I’m a liar, for Christ’s sakes!

Sure, sure,
THIS one is about me,
That much I can say,
But everything else?
‘Twas all fake.

I am an ink-and-paper conman,
Because that is how I choose to make a living.

Hate me, if you so dare,
For if you do,
Then you, too, hate the likes of
Rowling and Twain and Wells and Hemingway
Shakespeare and Spielberg and Lucas—

Oh, yes, read up,
Lies upon lies in black-and-white!

We are similar in such a way
Which creates alternate worlds and feelings
And beings of different kinds;
We are those who love to implant things
Into your subconscious mind.

What is true to you,
But false to all,
Is the picture you happen to imagine
When you flip pages and have a ball!

Semantics, my dear,
It is what takes you on a trip
Across a flexible lexicon
Where words are invented and used anew;
Where instead of shoes, you wear foot-canoes.

Your favorite books and movies and songs,
All figments of enigmatic mind,
But,
Is it really all that wrong?

Our lies are
For your enjoyment,
And the good of mankind,
An escape from what’s real,
It brings you to light,
Without this work,
There’d be no color to life.

And that’s why we’re liars
In black-and-white.