If truth were a sword,
And it were to slash through the hearts
Of its battered victims;
If it were to be sent, or to scatter towards
Those that gave it no mercy;
I wish then that I could have seen
What truth does to those that have never been
Beaten so silently, punished with words they
Never dared to hear;
Standing reticent before the wounds
That were ripped apart by their meager hearts
With smirks on their faces rather than
Shredded apart;
Watching another soul evade
And slip through their shallow bodies
Filled with nothing but malevolent hate.

If truth were a gun
It would make its way into the hands
Of those that intend to pull the trigger
And kill a stranger, a friend, or foe –
They hold it to your heart and you feel
Their fingers let go;
One second it takes and the power of the blow
Hits you so hard you fall to the ground
Where you are found without a single word
To utter, but you now know
That they were not afraid to watch you
Crawl below them, and fear them more than
You feel the barrel of the gun
Pressed to your chest.

If truth were a bottle of wine
Pressed to your lips, giving a kiss
To the rim of your glass,
Waiting for time to pass,
The hours no longer seem so painful and stern –
And you splatter out the words under your
Mumbled breath and crooked smile;
Your speech is nonsense, but it is perhaps the
Foul truth that lingers at the tip of your
Inebriated tongue and your noxious mind.
If truth were the poison that drips from your lips,
And if I were the one to pick up the broken words
To form a perplexed sentence spoken so soullessly;
I would have never wished to hear the truth
If the truth was only spoken when your mind
Could no longer tame your soft heart that once refused
To let hatred dictate your morality.