Dishonest I am
Dishonesty has been, in words apt for it, described
as a fail of etiquettes, of ethics, of manners inscribed.
For to be honest, is to speak of the heart through one's own mind;
to untie the chains that so exaggeratingly bind.
But when I feel pain, or sorrow, or happiness, I set my quill down,
for me to compose an orchestra of truth, in which I myself drown.
However, so cursed is the quill, for it yields to my mind, not heart
what it wishes to produce, is not a recreation of emotions, but an art.
I have tried, again and yet again, to teach it what art is, to coax
yet listens not - stubborn quill, it believes my words are a hoax!
Thus all I create are analogies, replications of my mind
pieces, shards of a broken glass case in which I’m confined.
I envy those, whose quills listen to their heart’s sound plea
They are honest and free, a mere abstraction for me.
Thus forgive me those, who are people of trust and respect
for I am a man with the noose of dishonesty around my neck.
NotenSMSK
Add Media
Style