Honesty to Me.

I sort of realized the power of honesty these few weeks,
how it can be laced with little streaks of cock and bull stories, and yet the force of its power would still spill out in considerably huge gushes.

And how that force can topple you over.
I had a spat with someone immediately after the encounter of honesty.

So honesty, to you.
Who reads this blog, who knows me, who knows me in person from a very close-up point of view, and who, perhaps, misunderstands me.
What is it to you?
Do you skew it?
Mould it into a shape desirable to fit the aesthetic standards of your mind's eye?

Or honesty, to you.
Who reads this blog, who knows me, and who perhaps is distrustful, and hold grudges, because of the things I've done to you, as well as to someone you love dearly.

Should I say I'm sorry?
Does honesty count, when I say sorry, just for the sake of saying it, but in all honesty, I actually feel, this, this terrible pain inside of me, telling me this, 'It's not just your fault, dear, not just your fault.'

I asked a friend, 'How did the Berlin Wall fall, in the end?'

'Because one side won.'

But in all honesty, even before this, before all this,
I didn't really want anybody to win at all.
I just wanted to be honest,
and I was given the chance to do so, it's as if a terribly heavy shadow has floated across the sky.
What's left are scattered clouds, maybe scattered showers.

Oh well.