dear honesty
Dear honesty,
I don't think I know you.
Oh, I've thought I did, but
seriously?
I mistake you for others, like a bigot
a rascist
maybe I should shake your hand
tell you why I say kind words to strangers
and choke my mind when I'm with friends
force my hope
through a colander
of half-wit
and
selfish modesty
nothing profound,
I've all but forgotten
how to open up without saying too much
how to pour without spilling.
as I write right now, I fight the metaphorical
the romantic, the vague
I remember decade-old advice from a TV show
"it doesn't have to be something meaningful, just something honest"
honesty, are you the truth?
am I being dishonest when I don't say what I want?
is it less true if I say it, than if I keep it away?
dye is deeper, darker when unused
is that what I'm trying to say?
that I think I'm weakening something to talk about it?
from where does that come?
childhood, no doubt; being told that my drawings weren't good enough
that I couldn't whistle on-key
that the lyrics I wrote shouldn't be shared
jaded by peer pressure
desires swallowed to appease an ally
graduation day
honesty, if I don't get to know you
how can you be my friend?
How can I invite you to dinner with her?
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