A Tired Secret

My brain whirls and whirls
comparable to a broken washing machine
When did it start spiraling?
A question I don’t have the answer to

My life is something untold.
And like a icarus to the sun,
I yearn to know my own story
Something to be my own destruction

The only story I know is not my own
but a poem of a slicing razor precision
This poem is none and all

It is somehow not my story in plain ink
but my story in metaphors and lines
My story of elaborate symbolism and cries

My story is told you just must look closely enough,
if you wish to listen to the secrets my poems hold