Poets Are Liars

Poets are liars. They cannot be tamed.
They live on borrowed dreams, and have the gift
Of casting out a graceful, witty line,
And catching your heart or mind in their snare;
Reeling you in, helpless, with a deft couplet.

Poets are liars. Never believe them.
Don’t even listen to them if you can help.
They have spells in their tongues, and fire in their eyes.
They will give you suns and stars wrapped in words,
And you will follow them, rapt like a child.

Poets are liars. It’s how they survive.
They give you their lies in exchange for your truths,
And fashion a life of their own from the scraps.
They must have an audience; without it,
They fade and pale, and soon cease to exist.

Poets are liars, even in the womb;
They kick at their mothers, curious, restless,
And dream of wonders to fill the world outside:
Soft, formless lies, growing with each cell,
Chronicled in wordless sagas nine months long.

Poets are liars; and of all liars,
They are the most dangerous. They will tell you
Of love that lasts forever, of lives that changed,
Of happy endings and greater meanings.
They make you wish, and hope, and dream, and feel.

by Amy Sutton

Comments (12)

lackey 1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111
maud poem i think i believe in true love now
Note of explanation.... thanks for posting....
Sounds like the listing of possessions found on a dead man.... it is amazing how much imagination can be summoned forth by a list of objects. Very original. I need to read this man's poems more often.
Looks like the inventory of items found from the person of an unidentified dead man. The context is sad but the way it has been penned needs to be appreciated. Thanks.
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