Realize

I remember the first time you lied to allay your fear of ineptness; you told me that I oughtn't try for my lack of finesse and depth. I realize that things were at stake: your "prowess," your pride and some other. It was tougher to pin, but your veneer is thin: 't was the love and respect of your mother. The motives are merely suspect, for I can't simply verify any, but you once were besotted, and purring you lauded my every line. There were many lies that I told you, as well: commending... a generous bit. It was mostly benign had I chosen "divine" to describe a new stanza you writ. Yet, it sometimes seemed magic because it was you whose hand penned every word, and my love of it grew for the buzz that you got just by striking a chord 'cause in truth, discord lives in your blood; it rules how you write and the way that you live, and the curious way that you love, and your custom of taking with nothing to give... but that's an aside. It was obvious, but typical, typical me: too naive, too frightened and modest to know that you lied through your teeth. Despite practise, performance and even recording yourself for the fans you hoped to accrue... let's be honest, your best was still awfully wan. Had sooner you stepped from the altar and stripped yourself clean of intent, released from the fear that you'd falter, you may have achieved some ascent. Still you may, but now everything's hidden. I've suspensions about that, as well. But whatever the reason, I realized your lie, and I wonder if you ever will.