The Ink That Lies
The Ink That Lies
writers are liars made of ink and fog
they hide the storm in their ink and show you only rain
they make you believe their old paper wounds don't hurt
they write worlds smiling while slowly dying deep inside
readers say they're stars but they're only shadows in the sky
writers are liars with hands full of gold
they create characters like perfect crystal masks
to hide this world full of cracks
you always praise them and kiss their cold light
but beneath the mask they hide seams of blood and ash
in their soul there's a storm but they show you only dew
they smile on the blank page and slowly die in their own ink
from every wound they weave stories like a spider's web
I see only a butterfly crushed under heavy leaden letters
I touch your warm blood flowing like a river of mercury
their characters are saints carved from light
to hide the world's cracks with an old wound
and you believe their perfection and wear it like a dream
but under the skin runs the same blood, black as tar
and your world stays just as shattered as before
readers believe them prophets descended from a crystal sky
but in their words sleeps a lie as sweet as honey
I am the writer who pretends every night
I wear a thousand faces to hide my real one
and I too fade out on the last page not yet written
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