Tap, tap, tapping at my door.

Rising from the dead, like daisies,

Wanting to bloom, to follow

With their heads the sun.

And I know there is no escape:

For far too long they have lived

In the shadows, waiting for bravery.

For valour. For that first step which

Would break their ties and, unbound, let them

Soar high above, eagles over Yellowstone.

They do not understand.

Their freedom is my doom, all I have built

Over their shoulders, wrapped in

Their silence, would topple down,

Like a paper boat cascading into the gutter.

And they want me to be daring, these secrets.

To embrace them; to stitch them in the

Tapestry of my life.


Yeah, right. Like hell I will.


They have miscalculated,

Misinterpreted who I am. Potentially.

I have walled my heart and soul,

Methodically through the years, so they

Would not come out.

Unlike some wailing, wimpy, pathetic

Spirits out there, I am perfectly happy with

My mask. I have craft it, carefully,

With pretexts, ambition, lies;

Lots and lots of imagination.

I have smashed my nose and cheeks to

Fit seamlessly behind it.

They can shout all they want,

These secrets of mine.

They can cry my name out until

Their throats go raw and spit

Blood. They can beg, kick,

Bite, be my Bertha in the attic,

Threatening to burn the house down .

I am a Rochester in the making.

I lock their door and depart, serenely,

To the world I am creating,

Chisseling, moulding, birthing,

Feeling no shame nor sorrow.

Certainly no regrets.

And they call my name,

These secrets,

My children in the darkness.

And part of me weeps

-A juvenile, trifling part-

For their fate, their ultimate end,

As I throw the key to the river, and

Drown with it the last vestige of my humaness.



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