Poetry is a
mask
made of the
papier-mâché
of your
emotions
A small
piece,
a small flavor,
genuinely
you,
but oddly only
one,
or a few,
sides of
you,
or maybe a
hundred
People try
to glance into
the author’s
mind
but get more
than they bargained for:
they get a
piece
of the heart
But only the
most dedicated
and avid
readers
will even
come close to that:
the gem,
the true
meaning,
which perhaps
not even the author knows
For the
emotions are written in
between the
lines,
under the
lines,
piled ten
layers thick,
this mask describing
the substance
And as the reader
reaches through each shell,
he will
ultimately end up
with
nothing,
the mask was
not concealing
anything at
all!
In confusion
the reader
searches for this face
that should,
must,
be in the
mask
The face of
the author,
the mind,
the heart,
the gem,
the meaning,
the purpose
of the
entire work.
The reader
gives up angrily,
begrudging his
lost time,
as he kicks
the pile
of peeled-away
garbage
across the
room
How long
will it take
him
to realize
the true
treasure
was in the layers
so
meticulously torn away
and now
lying in ruin
of a work
once magnificent?