i tell secrets in the form of poetry
each of my subjects is a special fruit hanging from the limbs of my mind
once they become too heavy, i must pick them,
tear them open, and reveal their matter before they become spoiled
not for the world to see, but more so for my own relief
i'll place my subject right in front of me for dissection,
but only when it's ripe and i am fully ready
my subject transforms from a drunken pith into a gem,
from a simple thought into a sonnet
this form of expression is the only thing keeping me from endless suffering
writing frees the subject without its knowledge,
and it frees me from having to protect it any longer
for it is a burden with which i have a sporadic love affair