Do you really know anyone at all?
Sitting in your favorite armchair
you’ll dive into a writer’s mind and soul,
stories used to entice, excite, entertain
pieces intricately carved out or plucked to share–
you’ll think you know them, feel their insides
but you’ll never know their true self,
if they slept in and had a big breakfast,
did they read the morning paper,
are there hairs left on the sink,
or their choice of beverage to drink…
What if the writer was simply human versus hero?
Would you still look up to their grandiose actions
or be deflated by their mundane mistakes?
We are simply the sum of our actions, only known to ourselves,
but I would like to think that not even the slightest bend in truth
could deter the most loyal fans of my best work…