There are poems I have left unsigned
Left in the dark unturned pages
Where they might never be read again
For just the act of writing them
Is almost enough
My yesterdays keep finding me
Every night they discover me in hiding
They beat me down and drag me back
Kicking and screaming
Crying, yelling for it to stop
I have begged and pleaded
Crawled on my knees and lay on my belly
With my hands clasped above my head
This has meant nothing
There are poems I leave unsigned
Because on these I spill the blood from my heart
It is bright red from the suffering
And rank with the smell of fear
The paper has been a good friend of mine
With her I have shared the most intimate of secrets
But still I leave these poems unsigned
Because to identify them
Would be to identify me
And on them I'd rather remain nameless
A. SWANTALALA
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There are elements...
of myself in this poem. I too, have unsigned pieces of work, that lie unfinished, moldering, because I am overcome by the emotion of putting them on paper. [Well, not paper, but I think you get the idea]. Sometimes, even after finishing them, I leave them in an unsigned slot in the memory-banks of my computer and external memory. They define portions of me that I do not wish to acknowledge to the outside world. You have touched upon something that I think the rest of the world doesn't wish to admit, but some are at least brave enough to write down. I am impressed with the telling of this story. The past is a terrible partner, always willing to threaten you with revealing your innermost secrets, the feet of clay that threaten to bring down the whole statue. I like this one a lot; no need to tell the story, the threat is enough. Excellently done! I don't see anything I would change. ~ Geezer.
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I get you Geezer
This is why I love poetry and the art of writing in general, you can read a poem and feel your innermost feelings being presented to you so precisely it's like the poem was written specially for you. I'm glad you enjoyed my work and you were kind enough to leave a review. Thank you