Writing a Poem is the Same as Telling Secrets – Adalaine



All I ever write are secrets.
That in itself is the only secret I have
about writing, but
I still don’t know
if that’s the secret to writing beautifully,
to writing a thought, an emotion, so tangibly 
that someone could taste it through his eyelashes and say

that’s how I feel the ocean too.”

sometimes i find myself wishing i would not wish to be 
0 and 1
i want to multiply myself into something
not nothing
i want to divide myself into something more
than the sum of my parts
i’ve made myself ill wondering
how i would be if only i could stop being a mirror
or else a window
and live my life with perfect balance on this delicate strand
unafraid of heights 
and falling

I have the cruel notion that I am a murderer,
slicing my thoughts into slivered segments
and burying them separately in unmarked graves 
carved into the rotten ruts of my brain that I’ve only temporarily 
I always hope they will dissolve–
perish the thought!–
and cease to exist in my mind anymore.
But that’s the trouble with burying things alive:
they have a way of taking root, stirring and returning
to haunt my heart
and somewhere, 
someone is asking the back of my mind

“if you are your own victim,
will they blame you for suicide?”

sometimes i am still 8 and crying
because another girl scraped her wrist when she fell 
from the jungle gym
and nothing happened to me except for the fact that i was watching
sometimes i am still 12 and silent
on my knees and begging for love and a kind smile
but faced with rancid snakes that will never cease to slither
through the rest of my years
and sometimes i am still 21 in your bed
wishing i hadn’t been so afraid
but realizing that i still am 

I am nine pieces trying to be whole so I can be a perfect ten,
one and zero coexisting;
I am a fraction of what you think I should give myself credit for
and I write secrets so that I can forget and always remember.
Or maybe this only applies to my poetry
because I fear if I don’t hide everything between line
breaks and 
alluring alliterations that allude to always and for-never,
I’ll spell out the stark memories of my future and leave myself
without metaphors to hide my skin in,
hoping it will become a metamorphosis
and I’ll become someone better.

i still miss you
but mostly
i just wish i could inspire something beautiful in you
or be the song you want to hear 
over and 
over and
over again
because the ocean would feel the same

I have
secrets spilling into the sky
and I wish the wind would bear them away
so I could stop spending nights sleepless
thinking about things I can never say
and all the things that came out wrong.


As I continue to read the greater books such as Charles Dickens’ works, I found this poem to be more and more true. How can one write while transferring all thoughts into words? So much can be seen and be exemplified in the mind but what really is the problem is that the feeling can be limited with words.



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