Truth

The devil in my head spoke to me in my native language,
calling out my native name thrice,
as if it was my naming ceremony,
offering me gin and water.
This is gin. When you taste gin, say it's water.
This is water. When you taste water, say it's gin, he said.
That is the reality of this world.
Even the gin we use for outdoor is diluted.
The communion wine is diluted.
In this world, truth sits on the bench,
while lie couches the match,
laziness strikes hope,
and mischief dribbles dreams.
Dreams crash to the ground, legs broken,
deception goalkeeping,
with corruption and bribery defending.
Anxiety, depression, and trauma in the spectators.
So who am I to alter the truth?
The truth is a foreign language only the rowdy youth know how to speak.
The truth is a curse only the disrespectful kids know how to alter.
The truth is a storm only the spoiled children know how to summon.
The truth is a sword only we the murderers know how to stab ourselves with it.
The truth is a poison only we the depressed ones know how to drink it.
The truth is a trap only the foolish ones can be caught in it.
The truth is a web only the desperate ones know how to get tangled in it.
The truth is vain, only the empty ones can see

Author: Awiene Clement

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