Novel & Cerita Honesty Poetry

"That's what makes this so much harder to simply refuse outright." "I have little use for lies," the Hollow said. "They are, by their nature, small things useful only to beings too limited to simply hold the truth of a situation and let it speak for itself. I am considerably beyond needing that particular kind of smallness." "Then let me be honest too," I said, bracing myself as the darkness pressed in, patient and huge and somehow scarier because it didn’t hate me. "If freedom means losing the person I fought to become, it isn’t freedom. It’s just another cage, prettier words, same bars."

"Honestly, do you think we have a chance?" The question deserved honesty even if honesty was terrifying, deserved the truth rather than comfortable lies. "I think we have a chance," I said carefully. "Small maybe, but real, and sometimes small chances are all we need." "That's not very reassuring," Jayce observed. "It's not meant to be," I said. "It's meant to be honest." "I hate honesty," Jayce muttered. "No you don't," I corrected. "You hate uncertainty, but honesty is the only thing that helps us prepare for it."

“It changes nothing. You still own me. I still want to leave. That’s the only truth that matters.” He was quiet for a long moment. “What do you want?” he asked finally. “Freedom.” “Besides that. If you couldn’t leave, if that option didn’t exist, what would you want from this?” She thought about it. Honestly. “Honesty,” she said. “Real honesty. Not the version where you tell me pieces and hide the rest. All of it.” “Even the ugly parts?” “Especially the ugly parts.” He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Not the performance of honesty — the practice of it, the daily choosing to say the true thing and to be the true thing, the interior given the correct location in the architecture of the self rather than filed under the bed. He thought about the simplest version said in January on a Sunday morning. He thought: the simplest version is the most honest version. The bones shown. I love you. Three words. The structure is visible. He thought about the Farrow house and the east window and the morning arriving before the day had assembled itself. He thought about the intimate register — the private morning before the shared day. He thought about the honest room at its most private form, the east bed

I looked regretfully at the balloon floating away gently in the sky. What a pity, I hadn't finished writing my wish. Henry touched my head. Without needing me to speak, he turned around to buy another balloon for me. I gazed at his back and smiled from the bottom of my heart. Henry, I made three wishes. First, I wished for world peace with no more wars. Second, I wished for a world free from diseases, and for the well-being and happiness of humanity. The last wish was for you, the very best you could have, a life you truly wanted, and not one trapped by me.

She whispered clearly as she frowned. "Ma'am, please help me!" I begged. "Help?" She said and narrowed her eyes, she looks like she was inquisitive about it. "Yes, ma'am." "What help and why me?" She interrogated. "Because you might know about it," I seriously look at her eyes. "Know what?" "Your poem entitled 'I'm sorry,' ma'am. Isn't it's about a man who lived in another world?" I said and I examined her emotion, her eyes widen in horror and chaos.

Some pretend at honesty with their fake smiles shaped and mixed with lies while they Plaster gentle-toned facades and use clean gestures to hide their dirty intentions behind it all. They fake being pure hearted, feign it, they even perform it and it’s quite the repetitive circle between humans making it hard to find sincere people. Funny enough, it’s the ones who show their true nature with their sharp edges, rough words, unpolished truths who end up being less dangerous. At least with them, you know where the blade is pointed and at least they don’t stab you while calling it love. The only beings I’ve found that come close to real honesty are animals… and maybe objects.

with that Hamza left and now that on the floor not believing what Humza just said. I try not to ask questions my heart may not be able to hear the answers to, even if my logical brain can comprehend it with ease. There is a kind of honesty that is selfless and a kind that is selfish. I guess you'd have to ask yourself if it is more loving to keep the secret or to tell it. By Angela Abraham

Violet warns, getting a shrug. “What? I’m only being honest.” She defends, and couldn’t help but roll her eyes when the blonde starts her brief lecture of how honesty wasn’t always a kindness, and how she could have at least sugar coated it a little. “Sugar coating everything is bullshit, alright?” “No, it’s polite.” “Sometimes brutal honesty comes before politeness. Not everything can be so sweet.”

"The piece is about the honesty of trying. The trying is the content. The failure to fully arrive is the conclusion. The piece will not pretend to have achieved what it cannot achieve. The piece will document the approach, the partial successes, the moments of near-arrival, the distance that remains at the end." "Honesty is an achievement," Ernest said. Don looked at him. "Yes," he said. "Honesty is the achievement. The piece that pretends to have the inside account is a lie. The piece that documents the attempt is true. The truth is in the documentation of the distance, not in the claim of its elimination."