I sit here, writing, or typing <br />precisely <br />my feelings, memories, events <br />to be read <br /> <br />By you, nothing hides me more <br />than paper <br />but you see me, my soul, and heart <br />naked <br /> <br />On your screen, at your desk <br />whore <br />putting all of me out there, my emotions <br />like breasts <br /> <br />fascinating, untouchable if I were a true lady <br />I'm not <br />just another literary slut, flashing my soul <br />for your <br /> <br />prurient pleasure. No designer fashion here <br />skin deep <br />deeper by far is my shame, and my pleasure <br />orgasmic <br /> <br />by nature, this thing I write, this lyrical safari into <br />my shame <br />but is it not wrong, just rude, unashamed <br />civilized <br /> <br />People have shame, animals have ruts. am I <br />animal <br />or mineral? its not a game, its my life <br />up <br /> <br />here, on this page, absolute, open and no makeup <br />no hiding <br />No running, I could, but then this would still haunt me <br />am tired <br /> <br />of ghosts, always running things, making them happen <br />I <br />make things happen, now, and always, forever, until <br />I die <br /> <br />Then, until then, no fate, no destiny, until I have no <br />density <br />any longer. I remain my own woman. Haven't always been but will <br />be.<br /><br />Kynthia Rosgeal<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/writers-have-no-secrets-poets-have-no-shame/
