Dumbfounded

I believed,

My voice was the best medium of my expression,

 It out-shadowed my skill of using my ink,

But what would it speak and sing,

When its inferior failed to produce anything?

I believed,

It’s easier said than done,

It’s easier felt than expressed,

But how does one speak of the flawed deeds, so easily appealing?

And when not expressed how does one know the precise feeling?

I believed,

What stands in front of my vision, is viewed the way it stands,

But later did I know that one has to unfold many layers of pretence

To discover a truth never expected.

So how can a spectator save himself?

From the deceit he’s always welcomed with?