The Scalpel of Truth

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I do not speak of love’s false art,
That wraps its warmth around the heart.
For love, in its deceptive guise,
Can blind the soul and veil the eyes.

In shadows where true hearts often hide,
I carve my lessons—sharp and wide.
Not tender words that softly mend,
But truths that break, that burn, that bend.

My voice is the mirror’s glare,
Unveiling all that’s false and fair.
A brutal honesty, unkind,
To free the spirit trapped and blind.

I ask with compassion, clear and bare:
If you can give, then lay it there.
No hollow words, no empty plea—
Just honest act: what’s yours, set free.

If not, speak no false refrain,
No need to wear the guise of pain.
Say “no” with strength, with truth intact—
For silence too can be the act.

Anger, likes, and dislikes—vain,
I do not bow to their brief reign.
They are but shadows, passing storms,
Illusions that distract and deform.

My words are lessons, fierce and stark—
To strip the mask, ignite the dark.
To cut away the false and vain,
And find the core beyond the pain.

Beware the words that softly soothe,
For sometimes truth must cut and prove
That what we cherish, what we hide,
Becomes the chain we wear with pride.

I do not speak of love’s soft art,
That soothes and binds a broken heart.
My love is the scalpel’s ruthless gleam—
A cold incision through the dream.

No refuge offered, no tender lie,
My love is the storm in a cloudless sky.
It tears through veils of false pretense,
And strips away the hollow sense.

This love reflects, unflinching, bare—
The wounds you carry, laid out there.
A raw, unmasked, shattering cry
That forces shadows all to die.

Come, face this love, this cutting blade,
Let fragile defenses fall, decayed.
Only in breaking, in pain’s relief,
Can true freedom rise beyond grief.

Embrace the ache that clears the view,
The brutal truth that pierces through.
Not to destroy, but to decree:
The self unmasked—its truth set free.

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