Sometimes the truth just isn't good enough.

Yet though man intends to speak
Oh, he is held off, always weak
Under the pressure and dillemma
Nothing clear, everything an enigma
Even when spurred by conscience
Eventually, he'll need defense
Despite his want of a clear mind
All circumstance will have him bind
Never did man speak of what's real
Or risk hurting what the others feel
Beneath the seeming countenance,
Likelihood of verity, there's a chance
Even his innocence is marked of fraud
Little or nothing in him worthy of laud
It is in the nature of man, so we fear
Ever to make the truth unclear.