I am an enigma

I am an enigma, one that has never been understood.
I write in abstract phrases that are elusive and sometimes vague the common mind.
Sometimes I even elude my own mind, as I reread what I wrote.
The day will come when I may catch up with myself,
and make sense of what I wrote. Although they will probably make more sense long after I am gone, and are being admired by all those whom I loved so well.

I write in abstracts that swirl around common objects, of the everyday life.
My writing begot abstracts that may elude even the most brilliant mind any sense.
My desk brags of coffee stains and ink marks, and even a few RPG things.
My case hides a copy Edgar Allen Poe, and Oscar Wilde,and a bit of Shakespeare too.

No one can see the beauty of my works, because they are as of yet unpublished
perhaps They are not too abstract for others minds.
Someday, my work will fill the stands, and people will enjoy the work I do.