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. 

 

It’s true:

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 

of insanity.