
Four Poems
Secret #3: I Hate What I've Become.
I have never been prone to honesty.
Swallowing the thorns of truth, still,
I prefer the leaves of dishonesty.
Whispering secrets to the sage,
the words feel heavy as they spill.
I have never been prone to honesty.
Lying to the tulips as they age,
“You'll live despite the chill.”
I prefer the leaves of dishonesty.
Wilting within the rusted cage,
my secrets disguised as daffodils.
I have never been prone to honesty.
Budding from my lips, a phage
of half-truths as shallow as the rill.
I prefer the leaves of dishonesty.
Promising the bluebells to assuage
the pain of every lie I told the ghyll.
I have never been prone to honesty,
I prefer the leaves of dishonesty.
Secret #5: I Want To Ask Questions.
Wavering in thought, I ask the wisteria Do you talk to God?
Secret #6: I Am Afraid Of The Answers.
A foolish question, the wisteria grumbles for a foolish girl.
The Bird That Built Its Cage
Self-painted white walls, homespun penitentiary. Four doors, no way out.