Sunday, 25 May 2014

The Truth

I can't always publish my truth, my truth is at times silence filled with a single voice.  A voice that reasons against reason, that wills me to un-think my thoughts and fights for me to stay inside myself.

I can't always publish my truth, my truth would see tears fall from the eyes of my children whilst I stand and stare unable to catch them, unable through lack of desire to move, to think, to be.

I can't always publish my truth, my truth is ugliness beautified.  Rust made to shine like gold in glass. Pretty painted onto pain to mask what was and delay what will be.

I can't always publish my truth, my truth is anger invisibly indenting the walls.  Frustration hidden in bruises that tickle my skin as if to remind me of the unforgotten, the story told a million times, wishing for an end that wasn't the same as last read.

I can't always publish my truth, my truth is walking a road in someone else's dream whilst walking in reality.  Nightmares dancing behind waterfalls, living whilst dying, afraid to feel fear.

I can't always publish my truth, my truth is deconstructed insanity.  Boxed and bowed as gifts to the unsuspecting, the innocent.  Walking fully clothed on a nudest beach, standing out whilst trying to fit in, only to stand out again.

I can't always publish my truth.


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