as I look back at my page
a mess of words
a smattering of double entendres and single-line metaphors
I come to realize that my poetry
is nothing like yours…
I like to get lost in my own little world
of complex connotations
and subjective metaphors.
Behind every line
lies a mystery
whose solutions are infinite.
I like to hide beneath the surface,
safely under a cushion of translucence
like a child in the clothing aisle,
convinced I am concealed
to the extent that I desire.
It’s the sort of release we all need
once every short while.
With right restriction of expression,
the means of my protection,
I set my thoughts free
for the sake of the future me,
who will look back at my page,
a mess of words-
a smattering of double entendres and single-line metaphors-
and see a different meaning
in the commotion of current emotion
that sometimes bears a semblance