Dirty Laundry

How I wish I could clean the mess,

take on the new and forget the rest,

memories held as secrets contained,

the very ones where I know I'm the one to blame,

the dirt of the dirty laundry clung to my past,

as I sat hoping the stains would not last,

some say there is reason to take the truth to grave.

All the secret I wanted to save,

become denial as one in the same,

sometimes I wonder if what I hold dear,

would be released as I let out every fear.

The trial of acceptance,

against of what is made to feel relentless,

but sadly no one would understand,

how could I win when I unable to stand?

If I could just sit and share,

having judgement unaware,

or maybe my thoughts would no longer scare,

do my eyes tell my story in a stare?

or is it found when naked and bare?

A place where the heart resides,

withholding truth's demise

is that where freedom is found?

Amongst every clash of criticism's sound

vulnerability on paper sounds great,

but if it's out loud would loneliness be my fate?

or bring the courage to a voice that whispers shame,

with hits and damage that of a hurricane,

hopeless mind as it goes insane.

The heaviness I felt in the place I sit,

Alone, shoulder shrugged with headache to fit,

with underlying thoughts telling me I am wrong,

keeping the darkness hidden as I go along,

maybe I am against me as I tell myself I don't belong,

so the paper is where my mind explores,

as reality and comfortability ignores.

It has always been about me first

and maybe that is the reason secrets seems to be cursed,

but unkept brings the light to the destruction of pain,

a way to relieve what was once insane.

As my story was worn in every page,

I have no secrets now,

I wear them as my being against the how,

as I let go the truth became,

comfort of my own skin,

the acceptance of my every sin.