Everyone’s favourite subject is surely themselves,
they can wax lyrical, wax lyrical all day.
Pinocchio lived in a little wood maker’s cottage,
and he had so much to expound upon,
such little truth to state.
And grow his nose did,
upon speaking of untruths,
are we punished for occasionally convoluting our truths?
As we take on personas,
to press ahead with a message or idea,
some fairy tales come alive,
but some exist with the knowledge that
some memories are best held quiet and dear.
But what of the tales we tell of ourselves?
A little bending at the wishing well where we reach into,
to drop our unwanted mirth?
For the ailing feeling has crept away, normalcy returning,
but only partially, you see,
and it seems useless in not exploiting a sense of victimisation
that was experienced the past weeks.
as they speak of themselves,
and speak of that girl, or that boy,
from across the well,
where they’ll thrown their own lucky pennies,
wishing upon coins and stars,
hoping for something else to share
all about themselves,
while with most there’s a decent element of narcissism to disarm.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 250432 from Pixabay
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