You’d

Read all that I’ve written, and see me naked, bare,
Then, never in your mind would I be clothed again.
You’d see what just one man has only ever seen
And never think of me the way you once did.

You’d see unfinished stories even I’ve forgotten,
And take comfort,
And sloppily-penned poems packed in pimpled-pages,
And blush.

You’d find some account of my days and think:
You understand me,
And endless essays revealing the endless madness of endless thought
Would almost frighten you—

Pages and pages and lines and lines
That have only ever been seen by these eyes of mine,
And at that they’ll stay—at least, I’ll pray,
For, by no will of mine will the Truth be so full.

And so, the mysteries of the mind might only just leak
From the depths of the irides that say it all but never speak.

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