If my life was simply put,
into an autobiographical book,
that spread my secrets round,
in a web that wound and wound.
It would hold no answers,
To those that seek,
To those who spend their nights in weep.
Perhaps those who inquired ,
would gain what they desired,
to know the lies that hide behind these eyes of mine,tightly wired.
But maybe just perhap,
They'd see what exactly made me snap.
A piece forgotten too,
and a piece saved especially just for you.
If my life was simply put
into an autobiographical book
that spread my secrets round
It would hold no answers
To those that seek,
it would only hold the question why ,
why we have to cry and cry?
