Scrapes

I cannot really be that hard to read;
I never lie, though sometimes I dissemble,
And often try to bury my own lede
Or let my words discretely reassemble
Into some lesser meaning than I had.
Still, obvious enough, once known, I gather,
And though obscured as by a one-time pad,
Yet recognizable through all my blather
As something fundamentally made plain.
I do admit it is not always blatant,
And yet I cannot think myself insane
When I insist that it is always latent
And therefore like a palimpsest, can be
Read beneath my overlaid psyche.