The Grandiose Veil

Self-aggrandizing words spew from my page of endless, rather obscure metaphors and similes, each one more labyrinthine than the last, reeking of pretention and thesaurus over-usage, as if by some ponderous stretch of the imagination I will be considered a vocubulary genius, capable of putting my vast knowledge of the human soul into word form. I am an intellectually superior bohemeth, well versed at the intricate art of story telling through a convoluted series of opaque thoughts and ideas, therefore rendering me exclusively original, even, dare I say, profound. I balk at the very connotation that my cogitations are anything but perfectly imperfect; my pain, my joy, my failures, my victories, my aspirations, my tortured mind, my vulnerable soul splashed onto a paper canvass for all the world to behold. . . if not today, then perhaps when I am long gone. And all of this I keep closely guarded under the guise that my work is extremely private and personal, a mere tool for expressing myself in a way that I find immensely therapeutic to my fragile sensibilites. It is not penned in the hope that anyone would see it and interpret it in such a way as to understand their inner self more thoroughly, but merely as a means to introspectively understand my own being. I am a direct descendant of those who have pioneered the way for people like me, of those who have forged the road of immortality through the written interpretation of the human spirit. I now consider myself among the exclusive ranks of this age old fraternity, Eternally exempt from the despair of having lived a life wraught with the very real possibility of being erased from the annals of history forever. At long last, I am a poet.