[Lies; with a side of Pastry] a poem

Can you smell the
second-hand smoke every
time I’m given second-hand lies?
Aware of the wary,
why worry if I’m unaware?
Why submit to the truth, when
submitting is untrue to you?
If you are to lie,
be an extraordinary liar,
invent tales so extravagant,
even the lies detected within
are a soothing salt to a weeping
wound


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You]