If I Did

If I poured it out,

spilled it all over the page,

the paper would dissolve

faster than Jim Phelps’s tape.

This mission’s impossible.

If I wrote an honest word,

you’d hate me for it,

for letting you see inside,

where there’s nothing to see,

just like behind Oz’s curtain.

If I even could,

(I surely doubt I would

or that I ever should:

it won’t do any good)

I won’t be understood.

And if, perchance, I did,

who would believe me?