Secrets

 

 

When can I cease to plunder

My autobiography?

Diary entries: intimate,

All exposed to careless eyes.

A witticism, look of scorn,

And then I’ll be forgotten.

They won’t care if I tell

Or if I keep a vow of silence.

Titillation, fleeting wonder,

Fool: revealed too much.

Yet my writing must be me,

It cannot come from nothing.

 

 

 

 

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