Blackened Pages

I remember when someone read my inner most thoughts.
I felt naked, transparent. As if all my weaknesses had been laid out on a silver platter.

I write but I'm not an open book.
I'm a paragraph and a few chapters here and there.

Blackened pages where I don't want light to shine.
My thoughts are golden like honey coated cornbread.
My mind is a hive, I protect its sweet nectar.

My thoughts are outside the box. In a different geometric lane.

I think of aliens in far off lands and what they think of the human race.
I dreamt of my past life. I ran as a slave.

The image of caged black bodies, burning, seared into my memory.