Ask …. are you lying to yourself or are they lying to you?


Innuendoes are nothing but small tokens of mementos

Frivolous romps; memories of things that you been through

Perhaps masquerades of forbidden days

Timeless, embedded wayward ways

Shackled free repeating plays

Of things you hoped, wished, your dreams were made

Perhaps there was some truth to what you thought

Or maybe what you paid for wasn’t what you bought

Fleeting stares and lingering thoughts

Now those dreams are motivations lost

You inquire of the entrusted thing you got

But with each breathe it returns to dust; it rots

Innuendos are not made of what you thought

His recounts; from yours discounts

What you believed all your meeting were about

Perhaps the confusion is a practical part of the illusion

meant to specifically recreate and manifest in delusion

It exacerbates the break with lacerations compound with contusions

Innuendoes is what sustains the bruises

Beating hearts, pulsating, throbbing parts

Blissful nights and uncontrollable sparks

Effortless conversations with no ends but always starts

Liberal exchange of personal things

Perhaps shared only between the two

But you soon to discover that he shared but not only just with you

And thats when you realize

Innuendoes meant something different to you

So you ask yourself “was everything he was saying not true?”

I opened my soul and bared it all with you!

This is how you repay someone, this is what you do?

So now those plays become unmentionable days

Unforgiveable acts that you now lay to claim

But with every word after you hear yourself defamed

Perhaps everything was a pointless game


These are thing in which innuendoes are made!


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