We are often asked to share our true stories
To break bread with strangers
As our unadulterated selves
To contribute
Bond
To intertwine ideas
On the days where I wake up speechless
Silence is my truest self
But it is not enough
To smile
Nod
To meticulously listen
So, I become something less than truthful
An “almost, but not yet”
With automated responses
To placate
Please
To carry out my duty
When they ask to hear honesty, I often wonder
If instead they are searching for
Pleasant sounds to fill the air
To puncture
Wound
To mince persistent silence
It is our onomatopoeic chore
To scare away stillness
With passable truths
About the Creator
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