Flatter Truth
Consider The Source
stare are me
tell me truths
flattery never flies
intentions exposed remove disguise
dressed up words can close the distance
gun shy, I choose resistance
funny how
encouragement can sound like bullshit
even from the pulpit
check the source
could be gold
could be lame which would be a shame
say what you want
i’ll ask why
to weigh the words
to find the lies
a truth deceiver
often hides
but why?
you can’t flatter truth
it, like dropped crystal, will shatter
stare at me
tell me lies
my fragile ego
won’t deny
buttery praises
inauthentic phrases
you got close
but no cigar
i learned a lot from before
oh my back has the scar
a truth believer
wouldn’t dare
they’ll stab you in the heart
eye contact never spared
now go back to the start
IH
About the Creator
Isaac Haldeman
NYC
I enjoy stories and telling them.
I’m the rich father before I am the poor artist.
Working on a novel. Why is it so hard?! ;)
@isaachaldeman
Keep reading
More stories from Isaac Haldeman and writers in Poets and other communities.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.