Poetry is deceitful
Poetry is a lie
Why do I write poetry?
To disguise and hide the real me
Poetry to me isn’t liberating or freeing or any other cliché
Poetry is a mask the writer gets to put on to prevent the reader from truly knowing her
Who am I? I can guarantee you my poetry won’t tell you
Because of poetry, I am a mystery inside of a locked box in a ship 1,000 feet below the Earth
Because of poetry, I walk through life with a dishonest smirk on my face
“Which ‘you’ will I get today?” asks the reader
“All of me and none of me,” I reply
With my poetry, I lie, fake emotions, and fabricate the truth and because of poetry, who will ever know this?
Poetry is the beauty and the evil in the world
The graciousness and the wickedness
And the equity and the malevolence
Poetry is in the way we walk, the way we talk, and the way we see
Poetry is in our actions, in our works, and in our relations with one another
Poetry is the noblest evil out there
Poetry is me.
But is this truly poetry to me?