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,
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.