If you know no one will read it anyway,
It doesn’t matter what you write.
You can be too honest to fool yourself
Or any of those who know the answers.

You can shout epithets at the heart of the cosmos
And whisper sad fables to the marigolds.
You can spread thin slices of your wounded soul
On buttered bread with the crusts cut off.

You can climb up a rock to see where you’ve been
And spray paint graffiti on the walls of existence.
You can carve up life’s meaning like an over done turkey
And hang velvet flocked wallpaper over it all.

If no one will look at the words you have written
You’re free to sing lullabies in quiet places
Or ***** up vitriol that scours the surface
Of the mirror reflecting the world that should be.

You can tap-dance across the bloodied shards
Of what was crystalline and you.
You can pull a plug and watch the swirl
As synonyms for hope pour out onto the ground.

You can fold the page into itself again
And yet again, and it will never disappear.
The ink may fade, but still remain enough
To make it possible to never deign to read the lines.

Was ever there a freedom such as this.

                                   ljm