Open, a vain confession

on

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Wound. Slit. Fresh.
How my hearts beats in my chest.
I plan on telling you how I feel.
But first I need to catch my breath.
Page. Turn. Cut.
I recite what I’ll say, eyes shut.
Will I make a fool of myself?
Or stack these feelings on the shelf.
You arrive, you’ve come, you sit.
You smile as I crawl from my pit.
Eyes locked, voices soft-no worries.
Until I decided to speak.
Field. Wind. Dry.
Like a farmer with no harvest, I cry.
No matter how much I swear I love you.
I can never tell the truth.

©2014 By J.C.S.

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