I want to tell that little boy his mom will be just fine.
I want to tell that dad we got his daughter out in time.
I want to tell that wife her husband will be home tonight.
I don’t want to tell it like it is, I want to tell them lies.
You didn’t put their seat belts on, you feel you killed your kids.
I want to say you didn’t…but, in a way, you did.
You pound your fists into my chest, you’re hurting so inside.
I want to say you’ll be ok, I want to tell you lies.
You left chemicals within his reach and now it’s in his eyes.
I want to say your son will see, not tell you he’ll be blind.
You ask me if he’ll be OK, with pleading in your eyes.
I want to say that yes he will, I want to tell you lies.
I can see you’re crying, as your life goes up in smoke.
If you’d maintained that smoke alarm, your children may have woke.
Don’t grab my arm and ask me if your family is alive.
Don’t make me tell you they’re all dead, I want to tell you lies.
I want to say she’ll be ok, you didn’t take her life.
I hear you say you love her and you’d never hurt your wife.
You thought you didn’t drink too much, you thought that you could drive.
I don’t want to say how wrong you were, I want to tell you lies.
You only left her for a moment, it happens all the time.
How could she have fallen from there? You thought she couldn’t climb.
I want to say her neck’s not broken, that she’ll be just fine.
I don’t want to say she’s paralyzed, I want to tell you lies.
I want to tell this teen his buddies didn’t die in vain.
Because he thought that it’d be cool to try to beat that train.
I don’t want to tell him this will haunt him all his life.
I want to say that he’ll forget, I want to tell him lies.
You left the cabinet open and your daughter found the gun.
Now you want me to undo the damage that’s been done.
You tell me she’s your only child, you say she’s only five.
I don’t want to say she won’t see six, I want to tell you lies.
He fell into the pool when you just went to grab the phone.
It was only for a second that you left him there alone.
If you let the damn phone ring, perhaps your boy would be alive.
But I don’t want to tell you that, I want to tell you lies.
The fact that you were speeding caused that car to overturn.
And we couldn’t get them out of there before the whole thing burned.
Did they suffer? Yes, they suffered, as they slowly burned alive.
But I don’t want to say those words, I want to tell you lies.
But I have to tell it like it is, until my shift is through.
And then the real lies begin, when I come home to you.
You ask me how my day was, and I say it was just fine.
I hope you understand, sometimes I have to tell you lies.
Written by Kalvere Lyan.
Please pass this on to someone you know who is an emergency services worker. These people are everyday heroes, everyday.
This poem, I Want To Tell You Lies, is from a northern California police department circulation from December, 2000. It’s author is a Minnesota firefighter, Kalvere Lyan. Thank you, Kalvere; for your service and creativity.
Deep gratitude, respect and thanks to all the courageous, talented and tolerant souls, like my sister, and a few other beloveds, who dedicate themselves as emergency services workers, so that in our hour of need, someone is there.
On behalf of many of us, our apologies for the lies.
Listen to the voices of Universal love: www.humanitysteam.org.
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