Confession

Every word I have ever said, 

right up to this very point,

(note:  see the unintended rhyme

of word with said, of point with right)

has been a lie.  

Even now, I am looking at every 

and questioning what exactly

I mean.  Every?!  But as it is good

for the soul, yes, why not?  Every.

But word does give pause.  When

combined with said.  How ‘bout thought?

Has every thought been based on myth,

even the known lies I tell myself at night

to sleep, the ones where I said the right

things to the right people for the right cause

and didn’t immediately wish for a pause

button, or that escalator that the French

invented to run back and recuperate for

the continuance of social niceties or simply

friendships, even those? 

or the beliefs

I hold in the face of all evidence to the contrary

that I’m wrong, so wrong, but stubborn

for all that, and small enough to carry forth

the right belief that everyone else is not quite right?

Yes, them too.  All lies.  But here is where it ends.

(Note:  probably not line five, as I

intended, because I am certain that lines six

through twenty-nine (so far), could under a micro-

scope be deemed to be problematic if the proper

serums were applied.  

Also note:  I lied about

lying to myself at night.  I don’t.  

I normally just clear the head, or try to, and simply 

drift away, not even really considering what damage I have

caused during the day.  Well, almost.  I do let

tragedy wake me, I do let grief overcome 

my pillowed rest, I do let the harms of the world

stay too much with me.  But not exactly.)

From here to there, I assure you, every word

is gold:  that one – gold – wasn’t because it slid

into simile, and unless it is poetry, similes are 

essentially lies.  And this is not poetry, here,

but a purge of the soul to start again, to renew

agreements made with self on some silly new

years’ resolution-y dare or somesuch, some

time when, hungover, I swore, never again to

do whatever I had done and maybe one of those

times concerned honesty, concerned trust,

but most likely concerned more the fact that I

had said, Yes, I love you, and I always will,

and when I awoke, there she was, unloved,

unknown, spent, and I, in a rush of blurred 

sympathy, swore to never tell a lie again, in 

fact, probably mentioned this to her, as I ushered

her out, and said I would call her.  Later.  Maybe

tomorrow.

But that was the old me, and I stand here, 

(okay, I’m sitting), (and here doesn’t really describe any-

place probably), but you know what I mean, before

you, all seven foot three of me, all four hundred

and thirty-eight pounds, to tell you, no more:

every and I mean every word from almost here

on out you could scratch a diamond on, it will

be that steadfast, that true, 

that honored, 

that instant, 

that momentary, that 

clear.

© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved