Why Can't I Be Honest?

Poetry is supposed to be my escape,
 the one place where I didn't need to be afraid of being honest.
Yet, here I am, lying to myself with my pen.
This is something I did not believe possible.
Why can't I admit, even here, how I really feel?
What I'm really thinking.
I look at the words I write and see the same lies I have been telling everyone else.
I feel as though I have betrayed my pen.
I am so sorry, I have betrayed my writing.
Why can't I be honest with my pen?