A Road of Metaphors
My poetry has been a disguise of phantoms and recollections,
Fused fantasies with realities and the differences I can’t tell,
They’ve been obscure secrets escaped through innuendos,
Implicitly in coded language loaded with ghostly bombshells.
And some never went off…
It’s been a road of metaphors filled with similes and analogies,
Allusions to the illusions of the near madness that I bore,
Allegories of the freed confined mind resigned to stay silent,
Yet a little bit of it bled through the wounds and on to the floor.
They’ve been the expressions of lonely glumly feelings,
Endless streams of daydreams of my subconscious thought,
Reveries of love and anger ranging from passion to languor,
To euphoric epiphanies and revelations I used to plot.
It’s the journal to my life’s story without the fame or glory,
The reflection and hindsight to the past I sometimes forget,
Comical chronicles of the years, some of laughter, some of tears,
And of the paths I overlooked and chose, and people whom I met.
I go back and read about:
Fifteen year old me and how silly I used to be,
Twenty year old me and how naïve I was back then,
Thirty year old me and how lost and scared I was,
Present old me and how I’m still trying to reach my Zen.
And I wonder about older me and if I’ll be a little wiser,
Maybe senile, maybe shrewd, perhaps ruthless and yet calm,
Writing better than old times dropping nuclear power rhymes,
Maybe then my message will come across louder than any bomb.