Balcazar, who published the book of poetry after the murder of her son, says, “Carlos was a very gifted person,” adding that the book shows the true nature of Rivera – a sensitive poet, artist and student of life.

Her son’s reflections on love, pain, addiction and God are revealed in Breaking Down the Wall of Silence. Apart from being a collection of Rivera’s poems, visual artworks and pictures, this Xlibris published title also includes thoughts on Rivera himself from his mother and brothers.

But rare uninhabited spaces That lit up when we entered them. We could not bear to be alone. And so we danced, a tousled romp That knew in its heart it could not last, Dance after dance, a reckless drill, Dance after dance, a frenzy of gesture, The marathon stare, the glad-handed stomp. Whatever we did, it was open to question, Timed to the close, to the thrill, to the dare, Done for itself, and with nobody there. The final dance of all is keeping still. Extract from 'Song & Dance' (Chatto & Windus, £9)

One year of holding hands
One year of hugging,
One year of laughing,
One year of cuddling.

One year of loving
One year of kissing
One year of touching
One year of romancing.

One year of your love
One year of my love,
One year of our love
One year of true love.

Baby one year with you
Is a year of happiness,
A year of passion,
A year of joy,
A year blessed.

Do we really think this happened? And, if that boarding school sued Sedaris, would any evidence stand up in a court of law? Not likely. In the amorphous genre of creative nonfiction, "truth" becomes a slippery phenomenon. As recent literary scandals have shown, this is dangerous territory.

Margaret Jones, the genre's latest casualty, saw her own "memoir" recalled before it hit the bookshelves after her own sister outed her as a bald-faced liar. Discredited memoirist James Frey offers some understanding: "I wanted the stories in the book to ebb and flow, to have dramatic arcs, to have the tension that all great stories require." Such is the hazard of fusing the journalistic quest for truth with the storyteller's need to keep readers engaged in a good yarn.

"Truth in Nonfiction" (University of Iowa Press, $19.95, 212 pages), edited by David Lazar, explores some of the maddening complexities of creative nonfiction, real-life stories that have the qualities of creative writing (character development, a dramatically compelling plot, an aesthetic preoccupation with language). Lazar has assembled a motley crew of memoirists, personal essayists, poets, performance artists and filmmakers, all writing about what it means to pursue their personal truths within a literary lens of vision.

John D'Agata traces the origin of the word memoir to its Indo-European roots ("to worry") and opines: "Memoir is an assaying of ideas, images and feelings. ... At the core of every memoir is anxiety and wonder and doubt." What sets these authors and this genre apart is their recognition of the subjective interior space within which the story unfolds.

A special world for you and me
A special bond one cannot see
It wraps us up in its cocoon
And holds us fiercely in its womb.

Its fingers spread like fine spun gold
Gently nestling us to the fold
Like silken thread it holds us fast
Bonds like this are meant to last.

And though at times a thread may break
A new one forms in its wake
To bind us closer and keep us strong
In a special world, where we belong.

The years of getting ready are now over.
On you now lies the burden of your life.
The teachers that await you will be tougher,
Having need to use you for their wealth.
Even so, you stand upon tall shoulders,
Granted the sweet chance to be prepared,
Ready to assume the work of others,
Anxious for the wind that bears your word.
Do well, my dear one! All my love goes with you
Underneath the rhythm of your day,
An organ tone that will not wane or waver
Though you run through the gates that mark your way,
Exultant in your work as in your play.

Happy Mother's Day to a dear aunt,
As loving as a mother ought to be,
Pleased to act when parents won't or can't,
Pleased to act when moms go out to sea.
Yet yearning cannot make an aunt a mother,
Melding aptitude with milk and blood.
One finds joy in giving joy to others;
The other has her joy, if she but would.
Heaven knows the way across the darkness,
Enduring through all manner of regret,
Returning, turning to the fount of stillness
'Mid mountains of accumulated debt.
So may you this day be satisfied
Despite the grace that fortune has denied,
Alive with love, both given and returned,
Yet blessed with nothing less than you have earned.

Maybe time is like a snowdrift. Spring
Opens up its secrets. And perhaps
There you find what you've been looking for.
Harsh winters wait, of course, but there are more
Ecstasies than sorrows under wraps,
Retained in drifts till their awakening.

Stirling is our little star,
The princeling of our skies,
Infant on a throne of love,
Ruler of our dreams!
Long may he reign! For such gifts are
In lieu of paradise:
Notes that do all music prove,
Grace that life redeems.

Family and friends
Lovers and one-night stands

I have loved, lost and lived
How do I trust, how do I love again

I should move on, it's all in my past
But my pain remains, continues and lasts

This pain lingers in my heart, mind and soul
Damn it - why is this world so cold

How can I have faith in God and family
When people I love are taken from me

Where can I find true and loyal friends
I'm sick of the lies, fights and revenge

Hurt continuously, hurt at a young age
How do I love again with all of my rage

How do I get past all of this, show me a sign
So I can leave my sadness, pain and crying behind