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Imagine
there are two sides to every story,
sometimes three, four,
most times there are twelve.
It depends,
on who we are, who we’ve been
and who we’re trying to be,
like auditioning for a role.
And it’s easy to say,
that you never tell a lie,
or that I’m always wrong.
If I were to believe that,
if you, are so able to believe that
then, clearly
somebodies a liar.
Not
every
person
is meant
to
stay
in your life
forever,
but
that doesn’t mean
you can’t tell
their
story,
it doesn’t mean
they’re
not
a part of yours,
so be a dear
and change a name or two,
just don’t
spoil
the end —
they’ll know if you do.
I try to hang loose
but always end up
twisted, like a
damp dish towel.
Stained and tattered.
Are we really back here again?
Rinse and repeat.
Haven’t you learned anything yet?
Rinse and repeat.
I bet you like it this way, don’t you?
It’s quieter here…shh!
With voices in your head? You’re too easy.
It’s alright if you sweat, just
don’t let them see you turn.
Are we really back here again?
Metaphorically speaking,
we never actually left.
Places just become new places.
People get replaced by other people.
Lies become fiction.
Truth becomes fantasy.
Like a damp dish towel,
twisting facts
until
they hang loose.
The world is filled with people.
People filling space.
The only thing separating the people,
is hierarchy.
Other than that, there isn’t really that much else.
Just a world full of people.
People filling space.
All of them, vexed with smiles of uncertainty, trying not to fuck up.
