Photo by Guilherme Almeida from Pexels
All, we cared about
Was painting a picture.
A picture perfect
Yet our imperfections
Always bubbled up to the top.
So! We took a scissor
Cropped up our stories.
But our stories
Were bitter
about our lies.
So! They exhumed our emotions.
Laid bare our thoughts
That picture perfect
Stood a fallacy
At the alter of reality
And brought to life
Insecurities.
There a broken story
Became us.
A sad nation in fun
As we strolled in lines
That bind our lies
Fostering us
To un-candid pain.
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