I’ve told you stories, a few hung on a lie,
maybe they brought a tear to your eye.
Now about these stories, some told in verse,
seems I wrote them in hopes I’d stop feeling worse.
I’ve told you stories, some hooked to white lies,
and I spun them to not be the man we’d despise.
So you see these stories, they just had to be told,
before I forgot them when I got too old.
I’ve told so many stories, I guess most of them lies,
capturing you, you and you in some form of disguise.
I didn’t tell those stories, even the pure lies,
to make you feel angry I might be another of “those guys.”
So, I’ve told you my story, and the truth’s set me free.
I finally told it when I just couldn’t hold it, you see,
struggling to discern between truth and the lie,
when the story ends and maybe that’s you and I.
A wide-body poem about how the artist’s imagination conflates what’s real and what’s not. He ends up creating something perhaps subconsciously (or not) straddling–if not downright erasing–that line between seeing fact and the view through his cracked prism. I think the meter of this piece was informed by the Jason Isbell’s song Stockholm.