Even as I sit and write, sitting, writing in the night,
I cringe and ask, ‘am I telling you the truth?’
Or am I carefully choosing and skillfully musing
To ensure you read well and nothing said uncouth?
Is my writing for the fame? Or do I enjoy the game?
Or is it beauty in the mirror I would see?
If I wrote just for the money, would you think it funny?
If then I told you that I did it all for free?
But what is worse than even that, hidden inside my hat
Would be the part of truth that furnishes the guilt.
But all that you would see, a distant mirage there of me
And there, the great heroic truth that I had built.
So, to tell a lie is one, but there’s worse that can be done.
To set a lie aside and truth be told by half,
Then to list the final score and not mention any straw,
When you say you’ve removed the wheat from all the chaff.
A dilemma every writer faces, I guess. And which is never solved. But then nobody wants the absolute truth.
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