the secret

I hold this secret in my hands. I can feel that it’s dangerous somehow,

I don’t yet know why.

I’ve been trying to work out a lot of things these days:

why do I lie

why do I smile

why do I cry?

it all seems normal from the outside, everyone does.

but only I am aware of this heavy weight between my fingers

begging to be shown to the world.

what is it, I try to ask myself

bending and contorting my mind into one tangled knot

hoping to find 

something worth finding.

what if there is nothing worth finding?

what if there is something worth finding,

but no words that I know

can describe it?

I can’t often control words, I’ve never been great at it

it’s as though they choose when they come to me,

they have a mind of their own.

I am them and they are me.

I dive into the past, a place I’ve always felt most at home.

back to those who believed 

in muses 

whispering secrets into poets’ ears.

they tell me 

that:

The poet, like the lover, is trying to create something that will live forever, thereby achieving immortality.

is that what I’m unconsciously trying to do?

forcing the thoughts into words with a strict doctrine?

trying and failing to find the Secret that lies in my hands.

maybe I should stop searching for something

that even if found by me

will stay a secret for eternity.