I want to write a poetry, with layers of meanings, like rose petals

But what comes out has but one meaning, only one expression

My distress with life, life and poetry both seek rhythm desperately.

With every uttered word, and each unuttered phrase I dream rhythm

Just like my days and nights, seeking, failing, bleeding, and at the end pretending.

I am no modern painter, nor a feminist woman, who cares for my burning scar?

Most probably I myself do not care a damn, if I die every moment or every day.

The dark labyrinth of seeking is choking me day and night taking the lights away,

But still knowing, at least I think I know it, I follow the trail taken by all humanity.

But trust me I want to write a poetry, with layers of meaning, like a beautiful rose.