i sat down to write a poem
but my words were contrived
and it died, stifled
by the heavy hand
of forced profundity
what i want to say
should be simple
yet in its simplicity
complexity lies, truth
too great to be told
by my poor mangling of words
here i am, wanting to solve
puzzles not mine to ponder
problems not mine to solace
hearts not mine to salve
yet even so, are they?
the islands in my archipelago
and the stars in my constellation —
are they mine to mind?
are they my irons to sharpen
in the living fire?
all i wanted to do was everything
but all i have to say
would be nothing
