You love to listen to the lies you speak.
You love the untruths you make.
You love the life you have in your head,
So different from the other kind:
The one you are in:
The one you try to dislocate yourself from
With whatever you can find.
Be it money, sex or drugs,
You never have the love.
But nothing is permanent.
You love the lies you tell.
You love your imagination world.
Because they are so different from the cold, harsh truth
That you try to escape, but never quite can.
(c) 2002
L. Brown