I wrote this on March 11th, 1985. I was 17. I’m digging up a lot of old writing, and while I find it a bit challenging to do so, I’ll share the poem below without editing it… I think I’d rather have it sit as an old work, not something re-worked because I’d change so much if I started editing now.
A poem by 17-year-old me:
—
What’s Truth
Everyone sees you a different way
Yet you the same from day to day.
You always worry about what they think
You feel paranoid with every blink.
You tell yourself don’t worry ’bout it
But inside you know that’s really shit.
You really worry and that’s a fact
About what they say behind your back.
People say things when not at face
You do the same with them in your place.
So why can’t people just be true
And tell everything right to you.
This separates man, from other life
The ability for words to cut like a knife.
Man is inable to be perfect
Because of feelings of love and respect.
These protect us from each other’s fire
So as not to hurt, we all become liars.
“Do you like my hat?”
“Yes I like it a lot.”
[It should be ripped to shreds and left to rot.]
What purpose was man put on this earth
What are his feelings really… really worth?
He cannot live in full honesty
He won’t care about this humble plea.
You know as you read that this is true
But you ask yourself, “What can I do?”
And it’s at this point that this dream
Starts falling apart at the seams. ~David
David: Did you like it?
Reader: Yeah, it’s kind a neat.
David: The truth…
Reader: …It’s good.
David: thanks?
