The Untold Lie

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The Untold Lie

We’d meet at the same place,

Week after week,

Always making eye contact,

But no words did we speak.

Then finally one day,

You approached me to say,

"If I give you my number,

will you call me some day?"

We met for a beer,

it seemed to go well,

though we talked only about you,

I knew something didn’t jell.

But you insisted that we,

Meet a few more times,

I gave you the benefit,

without reason or rhyme.

And still it was the same,

You never asked about me,

Not my work nor my last name,

Nor my goals or my dreams.

Like the country song says,

"Can we talk about me now?"

Can I interject something?

A fact? A short story, somehow?

I knew something wasn’t right,

I felt it deep down inside,

But I gave you another chance,

Trusting you had nothing to hide.

Still you showed little interest,

Though you pursued me each day,

I tried to understand,

Your meaning and your ways.

For I am pure of heart,

So I thought you were shy,

I had no idea,

That it was all a lie.

But still you kept hiding,

The truth behind your smile,

Of course, I didn’t get it,

It took me awhile.

See, I didn’t know,

That your calls filled with "Dears" and with "Huns,"

Were only a rouse,

Your idea of fun.

Your ploy all along,

Was to get me into bed,

You obviously weren’t good at it,

What the hell was in your head?

Then I found out that you,

Had a girl on the side,

Of course you were secretive,

You had something to hide.

This might be news to you,

But my heart isn’t a toy,

A mere play thing for you,

A game to enjoy.

You would know this if you,

Took the time to get to know me,

But you couldn’t even do that,

How blind you must be.

So the time has come,

For me to say goodbye,

And move on to better things,

And forget your lies.

But I know this for sure,

The game that you play,

Will come back to haunt you,

In this bed that you lay.

The only goal that you’ve met,

Is to reinforce my belief,

That you can trust no one,

Because it’s all lies and deceit.

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Poetry is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality.

T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

nobodysfool’s Poems (8)

Title Comments
Title Comments
No Man at All 1
The Untold Lie 0
My Last Breath 2
You 1
You Lose 3
Holding On 2
Words 1
The Player 3