I have a secret

Mood: In low spirits

You ask what it is

Come, come softly tender
Sweet, sweet careless surrender
This shall I give you
Give shall I what is true
One day it might
Breathe your own plight
Hush, hush it hides
Line of reason it divides
What must be
Shall I see
So you shall
For it also is in thee

My, my this curious thing
An awful feeling it does bring
It holds no bound
And bears no ground
Pity, pity cause it makes you flout
But also makes you spout
Of the wonderful, so wonderful
World of wonder
Only this inherent hunger
Only and only it would
Make you say I could
Yet why do they say
Say words shall they
When it comes your way
It does hold sway

Dear, dear come here
Press your ear
Let me tell you this
Something is amiss
A secret is within
Within a secret it is in
In each who thinks
Thinking it links
Flutter, it flutters away
It will come back one day
Come back that day to stay

What is it? You ask
What it is that I mask
If its the answer you seek
Then I will reply
Of it you reek
If you ask me why
Because it makes you sick
Sick, sick…
Really sick.


For the hypocrites out there… hear ye, hear ye.
This is a freestyle poem… no rules, no conventions.
Offbeat, lithe, sweet, and discreet.
Yeah, baby.
It is all me. ~GPD

- - - -

**A song?

*It does not manage prudence, but it sustains both imprudence and confidence. Must I believe it flowers ignorance and much incredulity. Worldly praises and hidden facets have long been in written in gentle strokes of ink. Splash here and there, caricatures of liberal declamation of admiration for it, a whoosh of the pen then and there, a chink to the wall of morality, without it they trust, and with it we all are savages.

**What kind of song? I do like music.

*Contention is what they believe should be produced by it. It contravenes conservative traditions, bears a vast deal of repression to a familiarity, and it craves for an obscene emancipation. What of it that they so dislike to stamp insidiously a stigma to what it conjures; for so much is aberrant and uncommon. It runs, flows, and even seeps from our own skin.

**You forgot the title? How could you forget the title!?

*Take notation of it being intrinsic in our nature. It must be so rebuking a deed for them to be clandestine about it. Rattles and tattles our velvet imagination, the shackles of ethical foundations hang loose, in a jittery imbalance… wobbly, unstable, and the shiftiness. Rickety rocking the chairs of propriety, because of its forwardness. Everything is now forward. Proactive, may I say.

**Why don’t you just sing it to me?

*Clink and clanking, clattering boisterously about the brand that it had been labeled with. There it goes, to you, to me and to everyone else who breathes. Blotting of ink… clotting of it when exposed to the humid air, not your fault… for it is a lesson you have not been disposed with. Yet it will be a lesson that must be learned and have you experienced. Their words sting and lash stripes of blood on your naivety, the wounds would send you afeard but sooner get used to. Deal with and for it, they might speak in detention of the matter, for it is a passion they do not want to understand. Uncultivated minds and an infidel.

**You do sing quite beautifully… though I haven’t understood a word of it.

*Guilty.

**Is that the title?

*I am guilty of a crime.

**Nice… uhm, title… it is catchy.

*A crime everyone commits.

Nurse: She needs her shot, immediately.

(The medical staff pins a scrawny little girl down who had been mumbling to herself, and injects her with a serum to calm her down. Then they send her to a room of white walls.)
- - - -

I wanted to write something obscure but still have an artistic tinge to it… so, go figure.

Here is a quote;

“If you write obscurely you will have commentators,
If you write clearly you will have readers.’

I don’t know if I got it right.*lol*

I want the former.

--oOo--