My secrets are not lovingly embraced and neatly laced
Into the pages of my diary;
You have to read
The lines to find them.
They are hidden,
Even from myself,
Like sexy lingerie stuffed toward the back of a drawer;
I know they’re there,
But I hope no one comes snooping,
Sneaking into my drawers, into my diary.
And so I censor myself
To protect against unexpected, undetected intruders,
Half-lying to myself on the page,
Full-cursing myself in my mind.
I never fully tell the truth,
Though I always wish I could
Dump all my dark truths out, out,
And a c r o s s the page.
Words, words, words streaming out
As if from the lips of Shakespeare himself.
But I am no genius with an overgrown goatee,
I am me.
My deepest, most innermost thoughts
Are not so brave or grave
As those of Hamlet or MacBeth,
Spilling the blood of characters
And the secrets of humanity.
My secrets shrink into dim corners,
Craving the cover of darkness,
Fleeing for fear of being brought to light,
For I’m the only one who hears them,
The one who owns and then neglects them,
The one who does not dare to share them.
But what if I picked up my pen and my courage
And put it all down on the page?
If I swallowed down the sadness
And I rummaged through the rage?
Would my heart and pen feel lighter?
Would my conscience feel the same?
I’ve laid my life’s woeful worries
On the would-haves and what-ifs.
They’re the only ones who’ve leaned to listen
When my secrets swirl into the air,
Like dandelion seeds lost to the wind.
So I’ll answer my questions’ call:
It’s time to share the secrets of my soul;
It’s time to bare it all:
I…think I’m about to run out of ink.