Truth Is Stubborn (So You JUst Keep On Lying)

You twist, you spin, you reshape the past,
painting yourself as the hero at last.
Rewriting the wreckage, erasing the proof,
but truth, my dear, is a stubborn brute.

It does not yield, it does not break,
it does not bend for the tales you fake.
You smear it with ink, you bury it deep,
but truth is a wolf—and wolves don’t sleep.

Oh, how you try, with your well-worn lines,
your desperate attempts to realign.
You tell it, retell it, louder each time,
as if volume alone can make it divine.

But facts don’t shift, and lies don’t age
into something noble, into something sage.
You can scream until your voice runs dry,
but reality doesn’t change when you lie.

You call it history, but history knows,
you were the storm, not the one who rose.
You set the fire, you struck the spark,
and now you pretend you were lost in the dark.

You talk like the victim, you weep on command,
but truth stands taller than the lies in your hand.
Your fiction is cracking, your stories wear thin,
and no one believes the mask you live in.

You edit, you polish, you twist and distort,
but facts do not answer to you and your wart.
You ruled with deceit, but time has decreed—
the truth does not beg, and it does not plead.

The past is watching, the past keeps score,
it does not soften, it does not ignore.
And when your mask finally slips, finally falls,
the truth will rise—and silence it all.