The truth is
abhorred
deep like
murder
for it pokes
and prods
with it’s
gleaming
sword
spurring
on shame’s
deep rage
tossed like
rubbish
in a
fit of
scorn
disgust
is the
fruit
of this
gems
reward
for
many
recipients
squirm in
ire
the
deepest truths
burn like fire
striking every
angry chord
who’s right
Who’s wrong
is it far more
proper
to get along
and watch
the hand basket’s
slow descent
or make
straight
the wicked
Ways
and I scratch
my head
and tug my
goatee
and I
realize
some hearts
must
be
torn
and I gladly
would
take the
shame
for truth
and stand
the loneliest
man in
the room
and live
with myself
as I
wake in
the morn
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