When Truth comes
like a black and white checkerboard,
like the painful slice of reality that
grows with every birthday;
When Truth comes
like a slap in the face
with the realization of life's true shape,
once hidden behind the shroud of innocence;
I want to hide beneath the blanket again
and pretend that if I can't see it,
the truth can't see me.
Truth is a potato:
stubbornly ugly, waiting for someone
to change its form.
Many people aren't satisfied with a simple, lumpy root.
To them Truth is something to mash.
Something to dice, slice, and bake
until it finally meets their needs;
so they can hand it to you and say,
"Here is the truth."
)