The Wall

Cupboards full of skeletons,
Words potentially too painful to put on paper,
The things I know have been both the
cause of great pain in the past
and the fuel for what will be more
great pain when the time comes to pass
whereby I cannot keep them to myself,
or those upon whom my knowledge is based
eventually shatter and fall apart.

From histories, to the mysteries of my peers’
Saturday nights and evenings behind fences with
cans and bottles and papers and lighters,
or what they did in shops (in vain) to save
money for more cans and bottles,
I know damning and damaging things.

I am not alone in all of this knowledge, but
I alone have been enlightened as to the dangers
of what they do, and the tragedy of what
others have done before.
Some say that ignorance is bliss, but I say that
knowledge is power.

With great power comes great responsibility.
Am I responsible in my way of hiding knowledge?
The boys behind bushes and bars are irresponsible in their ignorance.
O I have stories to be told, just as I have been entrusted with the stories of old.
But I have sworn myself to secrecy,
keeping things locked away to protect the names of
the innocent and the ignorant.

In my promise I have born the burden
of knowing all, deciphering for myself the
lessons that could be learned but cannot
be taught without causing hurt.
Even in these words I have kept my
word to my first story-teller, but my
other secrets of silliness (not natural curiosity)
are not hidden, even by the ones who try to stay out of sight.

If walls could talk all truth would out,
leaving the ignorant without doubt
that feigning innocence does not lead to bliss
but only hurt, these lines and unhappiness.


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