People carry secrets.
Like dark shadows, lurking on the wall behind you, out of the corner of your eye
But when you turn around, the dark spots blur together into a blob that seems relatively harmless.
And that was a cliche sentence.
My secret is that I cannot write poetry.
People carry secrets.
In their hearts, minds, souls.
And on their skin.
I mean, I'm sure, you can see, scrawled across my arm is the secret "I can't write poetry"
It's pretty blatant by the way this poem is turning out.
I don't think I even have any literary devices in it yet.
But there is time.
People carry secrets.
(that's repetition right there)
In the way they move.
A glance at the orange cup as opposed to the green.
Yeah. You know what they really want.
But they won't say it out loud.
My secret is that I would prefer to be in the audience.
Because I can't write poetry.
Or perform poetry.
But I'm up here. Sharing my secret with you.
Doesn't that make us closer?
People carry secrets.
And, they like to tell people their secrets.
They want to, you know.
They NEED to tell you their secrets.
Do I feel the need to tell you my secret?
Do you want to be closer to me?
Do you want to know what buzzes through my mind at night?
What sweet honey attracts the bee that stings?
(Look, I used a metaphor)
Not really.
Do you want to know for whom I cry? For what I cry? Why I cry at all?
Do you care?
People carry secrets.
Deep secrets.
And they all want someone to listen.
Now, I may not be able to write poetry.
But I can see those glances, those movements.
You know, the ones where she grasps her arm, squeezing tightly.
The ones where he stares at a poster on the wall.
The ones where she leaves her words carelessly on the table.
The ones where he taps his foot.
People carry secrets.
And they wait for someone to ask why.
So why am I up here, reciting a poem for all of you?
Frankly, I don't really have anything better to do.
