What do I know, that I could write about?
Horticulture, viticulture? Astronomy, barometry?
Physics, mystics? Chemistry, telemetry?
The mysteries of history—primeval and medieval?
The rhymes of time—paternity and modernity?
No, none of these; nor crime scenes or trees,
nor legalities or “legalese”
or homicide or suicide
or psych- or sociology.
What I know that I could write—
Could put it down and get it right—
Would be the world I find inside
But half of which I have to hide.
My humanity, my insanity? My philosophy, my sophistry?
My hate, my weight, my always being late?
My witicisms, my cynicism?
My wandering eyes, my layered lies?
If I would write of what I know
of friends betrayed and foes obeyed
of faith that’s old, a heart that’s cold
Let alone the roads my sleep-thoughts take
Not to mention when I’m awake!
It seems I would be awfully brave
To spend the secrets that I save…
What can I learn, that I could write about?
[NOTE: This poem is not autobiographical (of course). It is dedicated to all those other people who are too cowardly to write about themselves.]