We tell ourselves stories
Of days that we are glad
Sad
Bad
Times that are hard
When with our bear hands
We scratch through rocks of insanity
Seeking out broken answers
To illuminate our puzzled existence
As the threshold into our souls
Are shut tight by the nightmares of our yesterdays
That comes to haunt our present selves
And threaten the tranquility of our tomorrows
As we dream bitter of the meadows
And the bliss waterfalls at the countryside.

We tell ourselves moving stories
Of us hallucinating instead of dreaming
Of how we make ourselves happy
And miserable
And tell ourselves the truth
Only to lie at the same time
And feel good about it only to rot in the end.

Stories of how
The eyes in the mirror drip with silver tears
As we look hard
And seeing in them the abyss of hurt
And the juices of joy eternally lacking.
We are our own opposite
The voice of our own voicelessness
The light of our own darkness
Worst of all
We are the same crows sporting around
Our rotten carcasses hanged upon the gallows
And yes, though
It is an itching cloak of truths and lies
About our lives
We are our own friend and foe.