Liars! All of us! ….(espicially​ writers).

We all lie. In our thoughts to make us feel better, in scribbles on notebook, in stories we make up and most importantly in poems. Poets lie most of the time that’s what I’ve learned. They don’t always have to tell the truth, sometimes they say things that sound good, sometimes they will give you versions of the truth, the version that you can relate to and keep the other part hidden. They say the things that gets the applaud or a place in books or evening reads. Poets are frauds that excite us because they can tickle words in a way that you would silently smile in discovering its hidden agenda or become concsious of it.

I can tell you about last night in poetry. How I had my very first kiss, under starlit skies that kissed that distant horizon and those wishes on invisible shooting stars that were finally coming true. It was around 11pm and we were on the roof. Our parents weren’t home so he came over and we were huddles of excited worry and our hearts were beating too loud in the quiet night. But every time we looked at each other we felt our backs burst open giving way for wings and tingly feeling on the tip of our feet. We felt love in all its weird disguises and we accepted it with open hearts. He closed in on me and I could hear him breathing, our hearts so close together I think they were beating together. And he kissed me, eyes closed and little smiles inbetween the kisses. There it was, fireworks and autumn leaves, sunsets and thank you notes . I felt all the things I loved. I shrunk back like a touch-me-not overwelhmed with it all and leaned forward and kissed him again. 

Well, you don’t know if that’s true. But for a moment there I can make u believe that it’s real even when it’s not. My first kiss? Five years ago and I have a girlfriend now.
Poets lie all the time. Only cause we dream, we dream in between breaths and commas and exclamation marks. We lie trying to make squares an edgy circle and summer a very hot winter. We lie, but we explore what it isn’t real. Poets are liars that we are eager to hear and watch.

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