We are oceans of secrets:
pebbles of pain, butterfly wing crushes, filthy pleasures.
And we measure them inside,
stack their worth on an abacus to calculate the risk:
darkness of confession + compassion of audience= ?
We walk around with our secrets all day.
Like junk in our pocket tainting us like ghostly fingerprints.
Like pearls of sweat or ruby devil horns.
Like gold dust, stars in our hair, holding hands like apples.
We carry our secrets everywhere we go and,
sometimes, we pull one out and we gift-wrap it:
here, this is for you.
Little presents of our essence, pieces of our soul.
And we are supposed to feel better.
We are suppose to feel relief in this release,
light as whipped cream, float like a bubble.
But I don’t.
I don’t sell my secrets; I let them steal them.
I let them cheapen them with words.
But secrets spoken become fake jewels.
They stop being mine; they fade into grey.
They’re not magic anymore.
I’m not going to lie, amigos, I am getting tired of spewing out a poem a day. I mean, I can do it (‘cos I’m like a writing superhero, combatting stagnancy one metaphor at a time!) but I am… bored. It’s that simple. As this year rolls by, December 31st glows more and more. I can’t say that it’s been a bad one but I think that says more about my attitude than the weight of my experiences.
So, one hundred poems or so to go. Almost there.
(Damn it, I should labelled my first poem as 365 and counted down. Curses. Never mind, I’ll just do it next year. Jokes, of course.)