The Liar



I tell stories

Sometimes to others

And sometimes to myself.

Either sensationalizing

Or rationalizing experience.

Moments in time

Becoming broadly

True rather than

Strictly truth.


Pieces of reality

Broken with embellishments

In my favorite places.

Euphemisms and irony

Taking the place of

Dark moments

Which would make

The tale too real

For me to relate.


I am, after all, the

Author of my experience

Creating a fictitious haze

Around my spirit

So that I might survive

That which haunts me

At the times when
I must face myself.


In the silence of

My thoughts when

Bravado and pride

Melt away, like molten wax

Hardening the shell

Around me, I begin to

Internalize the Truth.

Soon, I will be able to

Tell it with honesty.


My stories take on

A voice that rings

With the authority

Of lessons learned

And I take on a

Mantle of wisdom

Rather than protecting

My fragile and fearful ego.

I may then laugh

At the stories and the foolish

Character I have

Played in my tales.


I tell stories

Sometimes to others

And sometimes to myself

So that I might have time

To come to terms

With the moments in my life

That I would prefer to rewrite.


In time, when

The truth emerges,

My story comes to life

On its own.

Harsh in it’s wisdom.

Fascinating in it’s


Fearless in the telling.