Propaganda

Don’t swallow

the toffee-tongued outpourings,

saccharine, the elaborate spun sugar

of my own propaganda.

Because I am frantically postering

behind the scenes

late at night

whilst you are sleeping,

handing out flyers,

leaflet-bombing,

assembling forces 

of heel-clicking clack and rifle snap

military marching displays

to ward off any incursion 

of the truth of me.

Don’t mutely accept the fiction,

my literary versions of events,

primped and pimped,

when I am addicted 

to my own contradiction.

And though the reality

is spilled milk,

is broken glass, my heart 

a thunderstorm, and the facts,

the facts, dethroned, uncoated

are a bitter pill, still

you might see me 

as I am.

Image from pixabay.