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Perhaps lost in translation?
(There was an error with the previous challenge, many apologies) As writers, it is inevitable that someone would misinterpret or even disregard something based on what you write. Perhaps they'll even think you're someone completely different. In any form, write about something your worried people will misunderstand, have already misunderstood, or misinterpret about your writings. Perhaps even write about something people assume about you based on your writings

Bamboo shoots

If I have to tell you that I am happy and that I am not hurting is it true?

I tell you that my heart is hard and stable, something like bamboo.

But my words, they, seem to tell a different story.

And as I compile the truth in the form of a inventory, it seems like all my strength is apart of pre-history.

Maybe my heart is something like bamboo.

It grows and rejunviates almost as fast as fields of willowy grass.

My roots are hard though unmoveable, such a contrast.

If I have to tell that I am good; is it true?

All my truths's, to speak of, feel so taboo.

My words I pray are a place of shelter through and through.

That's what I try to construe.

On the outside looking in I know my roots look dead, rotten.

Dead and living though we have something in common.

In life the rotten roots breathed purity.

It all was a show of prosperity.

Together we all stood in solidarity.

In death, though the roots may not breath purity, they give evidence of truth, of a life well lived.

In death it's roots are refined.

They are revised.

And people look on with pride.

Decomposition brings people together, in stride.

Isn't that all any poet desires?

That our words flow into something higher lost in mystic satire?

Misunderstand my words, glean from them what you must.

Words that I scribbled that late august.

If I have to tell the truth of my words then you've already missed the point.

If they are not air to your soul, truth to your mind, and a high romance to your heart my purpose has failed.

The more I attempt at poetry I flex my universal joints.

From the tree tops I've survellied.

I know that the essence will not forever be clear.

That's okay because I know that I am no shakespeare.

If I have to tell you that I am okay is it true?

Am I really as strong as the tall bamboo?

Are my words that different of a story?

Am I really a contrast?

Who am I through and through?

I don't really know what I am trying to construe.

In purity do I really bring prosperity?

Or have I lost myself in the solidarity?

Is everyone losing interest in my attempts at mystic satire?

Is my poetry just words to be worked out before the year brings the haze of another late august.

Have my unexercised universal joints atrophied?

Has the comprehension of my words gotten lost in black sulphide?

I am no shakespeare.

I'm almost afraid that my words will be lost in this mundane sphere.

That my words aren't at all like the strong arms of bamboo.

They are nothing brand new.

Isn't that every poets fear? That we just wrote words that you thought you once knew?

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