A stranger once asked me, "What is your deepest darkest secret?" I laughed at his curiosity, hesitated for a few moments and then gave up.
"I can't think of any at the moment." I replied.
Lie.
"I'll have to get back to you."
Another lie.
My deepest darkest secret is the words that spill from the ink of my pen into limericks, narratives and sonnets. It is the raw, most pure form of my fears, hopes and dreams.
It is poetry.