The truth about my poetry is this,

I write unnecessarily complex diaries and call it poetry. That's the truth. If you've ever read one and thought, "That seems like it doesn't fit. What does that mean?", it's because you're a rational person who knows nothing of my life's innards. Every word has meaning. When it looks like I'm being facetious, it's because I'm making myself chuckle, not telling a story. Why do I feel the need to address this?

Because it reassures me that I will never be published. Not with this attitude, anyways. THE defining line between my work and anyone published is that those writers took measures to speak in a universal language while I have purposely gone out of my way to achieve the opposite. It makes me a bit of a gimmick, really. Really. It really does. 

My poetry gives me away at every turn. Every sordid little detail is buried in the nonsense. I swear, you read those things again with crossed eyes and you'll see a girl who has alienated herself from all contact. From experience and adventure. From people and places. From taste and from memory. I am an alien. Plain and simple. I'm an alien who happens to have crafted her own sort of English. 

I'll give you an idiotic example.

This is the way my brain works (if I let it):

beholding...bee holding...

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder,

then Beast must be Buzzed and crushed

in the palm.

Ta-da!

You all reading this are now visitors to my planet.

You have been given translation.

Do what you will.