The greatest lies are those we tell ourselves.
I once believed my words were heaven-sent,
Arranged old chapbooks on the dusty shelves,
And found some meaning in a compliment.
Behind a wooden desk, I spent each night,
In yellow light which made the pages ancient,
Believing that, like God, a man could write
The world into existence, with some patience.
Through all of this, I never paused (to breathe!)
To see that life passed by unnoticed while
I looked for adjectives, that beauty’s span is brief,
And that my writing is an act of self-denial.