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False Presumptions
August 5, 2011
Trailing my finger along spines
I feel as if the shelves would crush me
With millions of years worth
Of lies
My first language is fraud
Carefully constructed
On paper in bleeding ink
It’s me
And you can read it
And get lost in it
And fall in love with it
If you want
But it’s just fiction
The truth is in fine print
Dig for it, but expect
No answers
A writer is a question
And you’re a poem
Poised to become
A metaphor
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