Confessional poetry is a problem.
I mean, I want to be just like Sylvia and Annie,
(as if the three of us just sat down to lunch yesterday),
and get down with the courses of verses I could lay on the page.
But I’m not all that ready for everyone to
know the level of insane that I harbor.
Granted, it’s not like I layer all that far down
It is revealed in peeks, like shoulders when
the spring warms for the first time.
But I prefer to keep my crazy tucked away like winter.
And I’m not sure, how they wrote,
all their secrets out in perfect lines,
and sestets, how they revealed
the darker things they had done,
or had done to them.
Certainly, if I do the same,
some one will be angry at me.
Or disappointed, or perhaps just frustrated.
I will hide the hush-hush away for another time.
So, I can test the waters of confession, and
tell you I have things to write,
that would break your heart,
and make you terribly uncomfortable,
at my turn as a problematic protagonist,
but tonight, that’s all I am brave and able enough to manage.
Then, I’ll leave the verses to Annie and Sylvia,
tucked neatly in their collected,
secrets to be revealed
the next time the spine is cracked.