Poems … and other lies I tell

 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