The first person who read this poem asked me to read it at a poetry reading. The second person said, “Hey, is this about me?” and the third person said, “It must be hell to be you.”
“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes.”—Walt Whitman
Meandering along the primrose path
And through the forest we can’t see
For trees, I stop. I fear that we trespass,
But I have missed the signs. Again. As we
Edge nearer to a slippery slope, I find
The gray area seems quite large, indeed,
And draped in tangled webs. “Now, I don’t mind
The Courteous Retort,” I muse. You lead
Or mislead, and I take your proffered hand,
“But what is Truth? And will Truth set us free?
Or…should I ask no questions?” Here the land
Shifts, mirage-like, changing mysteriously.
Amazed at various shades a word implies,
I reach through veiled meanings that obscure
The difference between half-truths, white lies,
Lies of omission, spin. “Free? Whatever
Do you mean?” We tiptoe, as you reply,
Among secrets, around inaccuracy,
Through fantasy. “Of course, I don’t deny
I’ve lied for the sake of expediency.
“But the real truth is, Truth can’t be defined.
It’s relative: It’s a ‘Look of Agony’
To one; but to someone else’s mind,
‘the funniest joke in the world.'” “To me
“That’s philosophy and word games,” I cry,
“You contradict yourself!” “Contradiction?
No, my Darling,” you earnestly reply,
“Honestly, everyone knows that Truth is a fiction.”