I could write

With liquid flowing

From a soft pen tip

And letters cascading onto

Wrinkled yellow paper

That smells of must

And the books nearby,

That there is a surface

With a million jagged

Rivers and a cool touch;

With openings and closings

And the ones we left behind

Etched into every taste

The finger gets

 

But these would be lies.

For I type with no

Emotional attachment

These lines on a computer.

I am describing a plain

Brown door.

 

Someone told me today

That the true poets

Love beauty.

 

But we must be careful

Since lies do not just

Fall from clenched teeth;

But from scripted

Letters of passion that

Can chain a soul

Till the message stains

Skin.

From poets and intellects

Who construct sequences

Of the beauty we

Crave

And tell us not to

Break hearts

With their shirts

Stained blue

From the tears of the hearts

They broke.

And tell us not to

Kill

While another’s blood

Drips onto the paper

Where they hold

The pen.

 

Like the fools we are

We shall repeat these lies

Till they stain paper…skin…soul

 

Ask anyone

What the world has done

To them

And they will say…

 

It lied.