Truth Is. . .

“Truth is. . .” On a park bench a person sits like the thinking man And wonders About their choices and people in the past The cheating and ling . . . The memories hit like flying bullets And this stranger absorbs them like ballistics gel, Then turns and spits them back out. This person is judge and jury as they think about the lies And the pretending of it all Things seemed to be going so well, they were happy Or so it seemed. Pros and cons of memories constantly weighed on a Libra’s scale Pain is just something that makes you stronger, Or breaks you if you’re weak enough The knife was cast some time ago, And the spot between my shoulder blades still sting. Betrayal . . . I won’t take it with a kiss.