Poetry

Truthless, 
I was searching the self, 
in truth of life. 
 
It leaves many 
questions, unanswered. 
There was import- 
 
of risqué. The generated 
heat would kill 
ordinary answers. 
 
You can tear up, 
a mountain to release 
the particles, 
 
although invisible. 
You stretch out your hands 
to collect black currants. 
 
For a kick-start 
you start shouting. 
I am the truth!