To Be Real

        
                           The lie you say to yourself’s the one you hear to be real.
                           What’s said by the tongue’s taken by the ear to be real.
        
                           Who’d go and sacrifice all he is and has for she who’s
                           only out to see if he’d do so? That’s too dear to be real.
        
                           Sooner or later, all my favorite holes to take cover inside
                           go off lost. I can’t keep hiding from what I fear to be real.
        
                           I never gave in to what he wanted, so I wasn’t about to
                           believe what he left. Who’d take any souvenir to be real?
        
                           We’re disinclined to accept what we’re predisposed to
                           turn into what it’s not: sufficiently crystal clear to be real.
        
                           Isolation is purely voluntary. Nor is it deranged to choose
                           it when it comes to him from me. As if we’re to be real.
        
                           Poetry’s not required to meet continuing education rules
                           to be good to its word. It’s not a poem’s career to be real.
        
                           Don’t take yourself so seriously, Cyn. If it’s true enough
                           to get you loved for it, it’ll eventually appear to be real.
        

        


prompted by Poetic Asides — 2013 November PAD Chapbook Challenge 1: Appearing

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