Poems
and other lies I tell
Words have always been my friends —
old conspirators
faithful accomplices
I have been described
(by friend and foe alike)
as smooth, silver‑tongued
a man who can talk his way
into a fire
and talk his way back out
without singeing a hair
Words have walked me into trouble
and walked me right out again
They have been my shield
my sleight of hand
my polished coin flipped in the air
to distract from the cracks beneath
They have built a façade —
an illusion of stalwartness
a scaffolding to cover the works
to hide the trembling joists
and the soft spots in the grain
A lie, perhaps
but a useful one
Because poems —
these little architectures of breath —
are the lies I tell
to get at the truth
They are the stories I stack
to keep the roof from caving in
careful distortions —
revealing more than they conceal
And maybe that’s the trick:
the words are never the deception
The silence is
The quiet corners
where the truth waits
unadorned
unpolished
asking to be seen
So I write
I build
I lie just enough
to make the truth bearable
I tell stories
until the scaffolding becomes a home
until the façade becomes a face
until the words
my friends, my accomplices —
finally tell on me
© Ron Simpson Jr.
August 4, 2026
