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I’ve kept all my secrets

Won’t let anyone in

Too many mistruths

So where would I begin?


Loathing the frightful outcomes

If the world did find out

Would their opinions be re-written?

Would our associations be deferred?


Comfortable surfaces they’re eating from

Obscure authentic, grungy ones below

And those stories that they’re noshing on

Are comprised of conventional ingredients already known


But beneath those sneaky stable presentations

Lays the sticky residue

Of words and actions all unknown

To all but a very select few


Tell a soul, no I’ve not

A cover to cover my cover

Reveal my past, no not yet

Too tongue-tied to deliver


My infinite infernal identities

All struggle to rein supreme

Waging relentless back and forth skirmishes

Which bring me down to my knees


And blunder I do, through these moments of pain

Which hint at my explicit truth(s)

But my use of sidestepping diabolical dialogue

Keeps the majority of my intimates confused


And most of my chatter, is comprised of false banter

So as to ensure that my truth(s) remain unknown

Those mixed messages that I send, again and again

Serve to keep the curious world confused


A life full of secrets, the world left to guess

And most can’t keep it straight

And though many questions are asked, my answers are suspect

For my life is far too complex to succinctly explain


My choices and actions are informed by my desires

Which I expertly hide away

An inauthentic life to be sure, but what can I do

As the world really isn’t ready for me


My secrets, my secrets, FAR too many secrets

The quantity of which spins my head round and round

And though I’ve tried to make a count, there’s far too many of them

And their numbers continue to build and build


But the question remains, how important is it really

To let others in on my truth(s)?

Why should I share, if I’ve made it this far

Without confessing a single one to a single one


But the question remains, what would become

Of my biographical legacy if I don’t share what I have done

What would be the makeup, of my literary chronicle

Would any of my hard truths make it in?


A book of fables, that’s what would be assembled

For very few could offer anything real

For few have been privy, to my authentic story

It’s much too scandalous to be truthfully revealed


I’ve divulged not a thing, not a single thing

And it’s a policy that I’ve stayed true to since my dawn

But as I’ve matured, I had a change of heart

But is it enough to bring my secretive behaviour to an end?


Do I open up on my desires? Confess my world weariness?

Do I now let the others see the deep pits within?

Am I ready for this? Really ready to do this?

And if so how deep do I dig?


I had felt brave, and ready to cave

And give in to my confessional desires

But now I feel weak, particularly in my knees

So perhaps I’m not yet ready to be fully exposed


And though my jaw is wide open, to let my words flow onwards

My tongue remains static and fixed

And though I’ve much to say, a staggering amount to relay

I’ve neither the bravery, nor the will to follow through

error: Copyright 2022 Christopher Little. All rights reserved.