A Soul Simply Isn't.

My poetry is not as honest as it reads

Alias, I got one, it's Surrealism

My name is my own poetry

To keep locket-locked up

Round the neck of my secret self

I give you scenarios in which to

Perhaps relate, decipher, de-crypt

Untangle, understand; make ill

But no names, faces; personal truths

No realism, just Surrealism

Surrealism towards my heart, mind, body

Experiences, revelations of which

You will question the value

The blue-collar/blue-tie guy is real

As is the red cylinder, and Jack

Is behind bars in world that does not exist

Taking it back to Jack

You see only my metaphors

You see only my soul

But my face is cautious, shy, intimidated

By those faces I know

And who might un-locket-lock

The sacred core I strive to protect