false face 6 (mirrors of our words)

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We are all really just liars.         
Here I am doing it right now,     
being a just liar,
trying to convince you 
how aware I am of 
how little the truth of my life 
can be conveyed 
by the truth of my words,
trying to convince you 
how aware I am of 
how little I can really 
tell you about myself by...well...
telling you about myself,

trying to convince you 
how little I care about 
whether you really know 
who I AM by...well...
telling you more about 
who i am...
just.

False Face 2 (mirrors of our words)



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If I tried to impress upon you my deep 
and traumatic feelings about the inner 
workings of the human mind, my mostly 
human mind would implode in a morassive 
sucking smear of self-important blather.  
God knows we've all seen that happen 
more than a few times too many.




False Face 1 (mirrors of our words)


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I could tell you about myself, but why?
Wouldn’t it all just be lies anyway?
I mean, none of us are ever really 
as anything as we want to be.
None of us are ever as capable 
of honesty as we think we are.
And, just perhaps, 
this is the beginning.







The Mirrors of Our Words, a response poem

(a response to this piece by natalie aka potterfan97 of mywordpool)

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The Mirrors of Our Words

The mirrors of our words
reflect only each other
and us.

We search for the meanings
of things in the names
that we call them,

in the names of the things
that we call to
in our sleep.

All we reflect on is our selves.
All we reflect is on our selves
like stains on a sheet.

We pull words from a pool
like pebbles to hold in our hands
for a time and toss back.

We pile each other on with
well-meaning mounds
of meaning.

We bury each other
in the masks
of things.

We stand before ourselves, reflecting
holes of what we can say about
the whole of who we are not.

In a world of mirrors
these reflections are all that we have;
this reflex is all that we own.

And sometimes
we stare at our own open mouths
and hear screams.

We hear sudden intakes of breath.
We hear gaping grunts of exertion,
sudden exhalations from chests

hammered by invisible fists,
or the slow outlet of air
that signs a state of awe.

And sometimes our lips are sewn shut.
And sometimes our throats are torn out.

And sometimes our vocal chords are rip-
chords that we can or will not pull.

And sometimes our teeth are clenched and
the breath hisses through them like piss on a fire.

And sometimes our nostrils flare and
the white-eyed starer stares back.

And sometimes these
holes in our faces
are just that.

And sometimes we’re all
starving reflections of each other
opening our mouths and saying,
“Sometimes…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(natalie is a poet of immense talents who never ceases to amaze me and in this case in particular (along with this absolute cracker of a poem) has finally convinced me to muster up the courage to post a series of pieces relating to my struggles with the Dreaded About Page and the general terror of Speaking About Myself.  Apparently I have to work out what and who I am NOT first, and perhaps unfortunately, you all will now be dragged through the muck that is my little House of Mirrors of a Mind.  Stay tuned…things could get ugly………-er)

The Look

Do you look 
		beautiful, 

Do you look 
		beautifully,
                    or

Do you look 
		beauty 
			  fully
in the face
		and tell 
			  it to 
		fuck 
                         right 
                                  off?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My beautiful wife hates
to have her picture taken.

What have you done
to my love?

My little girl wants to 
be a ballerina, a fairy.

What will you do
to love?

So many girls
becoming 
so many women.

What do you do
to love?