A poem I wrote on my LiveJournal a few days ago. Nothing special.
Each and every writer is
a liar of his each and every own
From the novelist to poet
he is a liar down to his bones.
You might beg to differ
but in doing so compromise
The very unlikely ideal
you wish to have realized.
I could list off reasons
as to why we are all the same,
From the self conscious
lying to the fake, false names
From the least to the very
greatest of us, we are the same,
Though in every little aspect
only slightly true to our personal aim.
If you called me a liar
because you felt to be cheated,
I'd say stay beside the fire
because the lies are very needed
To bring you to a point
of mystery and doubt and treason,
When I weave a tale that
you seem to find so misleading.
But if you search your heart
for the words to comprehend the dark,
I'd tell you the only place to start
is the dark that lies within your very heart.