Too personal for poetry…

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Blank pages peek back at me,

taunting me with their emptiness

pleading for me to fill them.

My mind is blank,

of everything but that secret stuff.

Those private memories

life lessons

and dumb mistakes.

Believe it or not,

somethings are just too personal for poetry!

My poetry is like an essay

poorly written

that only lists the points

but never goes in dept.

Only skips and skims

but never getting to the issue,

because my heart, my life,

was just too personal

for prying eyes and intrigued ears.

How could i tell poetry,

that i never felt worthy of anybody’s love,

that they were moments after having sex,

that i just wanted to rub my skin raw.

That no matter how many years past,

I will never forget when he held me down,

touched me in private, immature place

and threatened me never to tell.

I probably shouldn’t say,

how I hated my childhood,

and the scars and the bruises

my attempts of suicide,

or was that attempts at seeking attention?

I probably shouldn’t say how i wished

that my mother had fought to keep us,

that she could say I love you

and not just show it,

but that’s too personal…

too private,

should be held back

and stored in deep dark closets

where bones collect dust.

I shouldn’t tell poetry that i believed that I had an addiction,

an addiction to touch

and sex,

an addiction to be close

or next to someone.

That I was secretly needy

and constantly needed comfort.

I should keep that back;

keep back my fears of being alone and neglected.

afraid that everybody can see the names of every man that I’ve ever been with.

I’m tired of hiding,

tired of shielding

and covering,

yet,

some things

are just too personal to share.

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