If life fit in a line, it would be a horrible poem. Not that it’s too messy, for some of the best poetry speak of tragedy as romance or vice versa, and I have never heard of a greater mess. Nor that it is too scattered, for some of the best narratives lie in the tales of drug-addled minds. The poet must fictionalize life and love to make it readable, and even then I am often uninterested in reading it.