Lie Poem by Rebecca Stansfield
Lie
Nothing could manage,
in that there place of fittings,
of what our minds are permitting,
the anticipation killing us.
Nothing was a lie,
even the small lies,
that were bundled to make a bigger lie,
were lies of a nothing.
But of a something, magic story.
That somehow made me a lie,
and I'm wrapped in this so called lie,
where my dependencies lay.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
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4/23/2024 9:00:57 AM # 1.0.0.1119
This is so boring