False Presumptions

August 5, 2011
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Trailing my finger along spines
I feel as if the shelves would crush me
With millions of years worth

Of lies

My first language is fraud
Carefully constructed
On paper in bleeding ink

It’s me

And you can read it
And get lost in it
And fall in love with it

If you want

But it’s just fiction
The truth is in fine print
Dig for it, but expect

No answers

A writer is a question
And you’re a poem
Poised to become

A metaphor

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