Lie to me, baby.

Tell me that you love me, though we both know it's not true.
Paint me a pretty picture of words and fibs and the colors of
the deceived--the neons and city lights that neither of us have seen.

False hope is still hope, boy.

Show me what it's like to have what I never can.
I want to know the colors of your heart and
dance to it's rhythm.

Tell me that it's all worth while;
forget that I know different.
Give me what I can't keep.

Lie to me, and tell me that you need
me. Teach me the beat of deception,
of oblivion, and help me dance to it.

Act like I'm the one you want, before the curtain call.

Whisper of my beauty, tell me what my heart so desires to hear.

Tell me I'm okay.

Please don't laugh when I fall, though. Act
like you'll be there to catch me--delude me
into the untruthful truth.

(It sounds like a flute and the wistful notes of love.)

Maybe I can't act as if I don't care, but can you act as if you do?


Wow, two in one day. Ah, well, they say writing poetry is cheaper than therapy, so it's all good.

--Paris