Hidden in the line of everything,
It slowly runs across the page that we write every day,
Hidden within us is the thing we fear the most,
What is it to know that there are lies that we spin to protect our selves,
Yet we wish that they were true.
A lie is what we make it in its self,
What it is to us we only know for a while as we speak it.
Could it be that it was only a tiny lie that accidentally slipped out?
What can we do it is just a reaction to what we know to protect our selves.
Is there a way to quit lying or will we always be tied into a circle that keeps coming back to the very lie that we didn't want to say?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem