The truth
Is hard to let out;
I've locked it up
With a golden key,
And I wont let you in
Until I can sort out
This mess I've made;
This mess I've found.
"In a state of cleaning,"
I'll post it on my door,
Then shut it before you
So you wont ask anymore.
Your consideration
Is duly noted,
But I wont pay you for
The convenience you pose me;
Because you wont get behind
These concrete walls
And this barbed wire lining
'Till I'm done cleaning.
YOU ARE READING
Unsent Letters
PoetryUnsent Letters. We all have them. They're that one thing that we keep from the world, That one side of us that we never let anyone see, Those few words that we wish we could say These are a collection of poems, written to be letters Just a few more...
