Image by chillihead via Flickr

My abstractions tend to flow,
Protecting concrete ideas by veil,
For if all was on the table,
My good intentions would surely fail.

Sadly, my themes are hypothetical,
My terms are disengaged,
When they long to spill the truth,
But anonymity keeps them caged.

Imprisoned thoughts want to scream,
Yet they whisper through the steel,
Gently releasing pieces,
Of what I know is real.

Writing can be a mirror into the soul,
But words can make the blood run cold,
For eyes can see the product,
And a story can never be untold.