One must tell one lie
To hide one truth
Because in our deceit
Is ourselves

And truly
Can ourselves ever be anything else
Than who we are?

Are we not
The purest form
Of truth?

We are overgrown
Weeds strangling the chrysanthemum
Creeping ever closer
Until they can pluck out our petals
To throw on the dirt
All we do
Is watch them grow
Until it's hard to remember
What kind of flower it had been

I think it might have started with a "c".

We are simply shrouded in empty words
And meaningless promises
Desperately hiding ourselves
In a counterintuitive way
To protect
Who we are

Because when we bite the bullet
We keep it behind our teeth
Because we never know when we'll need
To spit it back out

That is how we live
That is how we love
In words
That lie.

I wish I could find a weed whacker.