Poem of Lies

Hello?
Are you listening?
I've got something to say.
I've read so many poems
About lies just today.
They rhyme of the lies
And the things that they do
They hurt you,
They help you,
They anger, confuse.
So many things you can possibly rhyme
As you type up your poems--
Your poems of lies.

Is there really that much to tell about lies?
Sad friendships and broken up family ties?
Who cares about that, you don't need to share
We're just reading the words, nothing more--we don't care.
We skim over pages and pages of jumbled
Words thrown together, as paper is crumbled
Tossed over our shoulders, we cast it away
The same things they're saying, it's no news anyway

So what about lies? They're everyday life.
Who cares how you cry or slit with a knife?
We don't have to hear of your everyday problems
So shut up--stop crying, depressing poetry won't solve them.
Yeah, you mope and you cry, but that's all that you do
Besides, half of the things that you write aren't true
What else do you expect from a poem of lies?
I'm tired of hearing your whispers and sighs

And that's exactly why I hate to read about poems of lies
Because you hear the same old things every time
Those poems are pointless and they don't make any sense
There's no meaning behind its truths, lies, and suspense

As I read back at the countless critiques I have made
I walk to my window and pull down my shade
To let in the gloom and keep out the light
The glow of my desktop screen, a lone thing in my sight
So I sigh as I finish typing this poem of mine
So what does it matter, it's just another white lie
And I see my reflection, I strain not to cry
As I finish typing this poem,
This poem of lies.