truth

the skills of the oratorical
language of the smooth
building a web of lies, of truth- i do not know
with words that roll off your tongue
like dew slipping off a leaf on a lackadaisical
Sunday morning

you’re coming closer
whispers of the slightly whistling wind
i hear you speak
with exaggerated confidence

you used to be so meek, so scared
hiding in every dark shaded corner to avoid
the people that struck fear in your heart
but now you stand with a cocky stance
(and i have to wonder what happen…
did you strike a deal with the devil?)

with a fixated glare at the world around you
you tower over me with a body
belonging to a quiet boy, not one
who spouts out loud his thoughts
who forces his ideas upon the public
and presses his thoughts into my mind

your intelligence never falls to death between the seasons
and i believe the words that spill
from your lips
slow yet steady yet strong

but most of all, i do not know
(because of beautiful persuasion)
whether to believe if this is an act
or if it is real.