Honesty Poetry Novels & Stories

My phone buzzed. Frank: You're still mad, Glasses? I stared at the screen for a long time before typing back. Me: I don’t know what I am anymore. The reply came almost instantly. Frank: Good. Means you’re being honest. I closed my eyes. That was the problem. Honesty was dangerous. And Frank had a way of dragging it out of me whether I wanted it or not.

At this moment, I cannot bring myself to care about the impression I leave on her. The truth, raw and unfiltered, unravels before us, and I choose authenticity over the facade of politeness. Whatever preconceived notions Lilian may harbor, they are inconsequential in the face of the reality playing out before her. At this moment, the only currency that matters is the unadulterated truth, and I stand firm in its unwavering embrace.

he asked me, and I smiled. “Why are you here Emma?” he asked me this question again. I looked at him and smiled before walking away. The wheels have been set in motion. You see, the thing about dishonest people is that you can always trust them to be dishonest. I am going to use their very natures to expose the truth. It doesn’t necessarily have to be my truth, but I need to find the truth somehow. I sat down again and wrote down all the events in my diary. I want to make sure that I don’t miss something important.

“It is just pieces and no matter how hard I try to collect things together, I cannot. If I had any control over my actions, trust me, things would have gone differently. My fist connected with the bars before I even knew I’d moved. “Don’t give me poetry. Give me the truth. You of all people have never been a man of poetry and you've never been amount of games or surprises. Start telling the truth. Those people that died, why did they die? What did she pay you?”

The ease of breathing when I'm around him. "Say something true," he breathes in my hair. "Like what?" "Anything. Something you've never told another human being." I am thinking of lying, keeping my secrets safe. But there is something in the dying light and his warmth and the impermanence of this that makes me believe in honesty.

I said, thrown, “we’re doing therapy now.” “I am doing honesty,” he said. “You are… noisy.” “Rude.” I paused. “But true.” “Noise is life,” he said. “That’s almost poetic.” “It was not meant to be.”

No hidden motive in his tone. Just observation. She turned slightly, careful, measured. Up close, he looked much the same as he had across the table—calm eyes, unreadable in a way that didn’t feel secretive, only thoughtful. Like someone who had learned patience the hard way. “Honesty isn’t always popular,” she replied. “Neither is truth,” he said. “But it lasts longer.” Something in her chest tightened—not painfully, just enough to be noticed. Words like that belonged to a world she had stopped believing in.

This led me to write this poem at my father's bedside in one of the hospitals he was admitted in. THEY THINK WE ARE FOOLS A bunch of jesters See their posters Nothing but impostors Pretending to have the answers During elections, they pet and court us After it, they rape and dump us It is clear how much they hate us Even when they swear how much they love us Their aim is just the common cake They just take and take Sparing none for those who bake To them equity and fairness is fake Is it because like in freelance We give them time and chance To show us the sweet dance

Bubbles of air choked her throat, keeping the whispers back, letting out only a stutter at best. Monica took the King James Version Bible, raised it up with a hand and nervously gulped down, different panic and guilt thoughts raced through her head but she dismissed them - not totally. "I solemnly state I will tell the truth without hiding or adding anything and I should be punished for false testimonies if I lie." Her voice sounded mechanical, like the voice of a person reciting something written. I implore you to say the truth, just this once!

A Poem by Sea People are selfish by nature, silently enjoying the ill-fated decisions by other people Known as pure white stones behind the tall strong walls but are truly wicked Innocence and grace are long forgotten after being corrupted Treachery was present for everybody wants to be on top of the steeple A group of masked people trying to solve their next moves like a riddle Fragile like a glass on the outside but they were all the same: tainted Worshipped by all. They can burn you alive but are still treated like figures who are sainted