How honestly can I describe myself?
I am not blind to all my faults and flaws,
And yet there's something in me hems and haws
When asked about them. On some inner shelf
There is a folder, marked For No One's Eyes,
Which holds the errors I'm aware I've made,
And should its contents ever be displayed
I fear the consequences. My mind lies
Secure in the awareness, or the hope,
That this will never be, and I will stay
Safe in my secrets for another day.
For surely there is past sufficient rope
Within that file, which even I don't read,
To hang me for the thought, if not the deed.
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