The truth is hard to tell
The truth is hard to understand
The truth can set you free
Lastly, Jesus Christ is the way, the truth and the life

I was the fisherman -
You were the fish.
My aim was you to hook.
To be caught by a richer man,
That was your wish.
At my bait you took no second look.

The words you write, you're going blind,
You hide away, leave light behind.
Your world’s gone dull, it lacks a shine,
How much of truth will you define?

You beg for answers from above,
But guilt is not what gods are made of.
You did it all, don’t mask, don’t fake —
Refuse the lie, or let it break.

Be kind, be bold, begin to see,
The mirror’s cracked — the fault is me.
You bury night to chase the time,
But still the sun will rise at nine.

You found the page but lost the pen,
You try to start and stop again.
You call it luck, you hope it shows,
But talent hides where no one knows.

You write, you dream, you paint her face,
But words won’t earn a lover’s grace.
No rhyme can pull her into crime,
No line can cross that sacred line.

Still here you stand, a voice confined,
A life half-lived, a heart resigned.
Inside this shell, thoughts twist and wind —
This is your cursed poet’s mind.

You want words?
Fine.
A poem born in the dark,
Posted under borrowed light — right?

You chase beauty
Because you’re scared of the blight.
You hide in daylight,
Where nothing really shines,
Yet you still commit the crime
Just to earn a ******* dime.

Yeah, right.

You call it pride,
But it’s fear inside.
You drink outside,
Act like you’ve survived,
But you’re hollow.
No one sees what you’ve swallowed.

You want a poem?
Look at the line —
Where the girl’s always right,
And you still want to fight.
You walk with pride,
Like you won the night.

You dream her.
You please her.
You think you ******* deserve her.

Your mind’s disturbed.
You smile soft,
But fall hard —
Every **** time.

You want redemption?
Then speak.
But you’re weak.
You preach dreams
But drown in extremes.

You try,
You cry,
But never ask why.
You bleed in silence,
Cling to violence,
Think pain is defiance.

And still —
You think this is poetry?

Alright —
This is your poem’s ******* theme.

Listen up,
You’ve been dancing in circles,
thinking you can outrun your own shadow.
But the sun always moves.
And shadows?
They follow.

You patch the cracks,
stack lies on lies like brittle bones,
but every cover you throw
just sinks you deeper.

You wear your little masks,
build fake versions of yourself,
hoping if you play enough parts,
nobody’ll see what’s rotting underneath.
But we see.
Everyone sees.
That theater doesn't scare anyone,
and it sure as hell doesn't scare justice.
Truth won't lose patience.
It doesn't blink.
It waits.

You write your pretty verses,
spit out poems like they’re some kind of shield,
like art can outrun consequence.
Your words are feathers in a hurricane.
They won’t cover the hurt,
They won’t erase the stain.

And don’t forget —
it’s never the sin that buries a man.
It’s the weight of hiding it.

The board lies still—eight ranks, eight files,
Each square a world, a thousand trials.
Its checkered face, both calm and cruel,
Waits quietly to play the fool.

The stage is set, the players stare,
Each move a hope, each glance a dare.
They chase the crown, a fleeting throne,
Yet play this game so not alone.

The pawns march on with hearts held tight,
Blind to edges of wrong and right.
The knights vault over doubts and ties,
Twisting through paths that mask disguise.

While bishops slide through shades between,
They blur the line of right and mean.
The rooks stand firm with rigid pride,
Their paths cut sharp, no step to slide.

The queen—so fierce, so fast, so grand—
Wields power none can understand.
The king just shuffles, slow and small,
Yet all would die to guard his fall.

But none ask why this prize they seek—
What worth has power if souls grow weak?
They fight for check, they fall for mate,
They crown the skill, yet praise the fate.

But when the game has run its thread,
All lie the same—still, cold, and dead.
No victor’s cheer, no mournful cries,
Just silent echoes, fading skies.

A silent watcher beyond the frame,
Eyes steady, untouched by fleeting game.
He watches rules with endless flight,
The fragile dance of truth and lies.

Unmoved by moves both thrill and blind,
He holds the truth the young can’t find—
That all their struggle, all their pain,
Is but a shadow, not the reign.