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