Do you hear the sound of all these poems,
Of heartbroken girls,
Of pained, tormented men,
That love or hate their swollen, melancholic voices.

Can you hear words, too many words that mean the same thing,
Again and again, ricocheting a message,
In person, singing the same song that everyone sings,
Or even carefully thought out words that ring to everyone who wrote it too.

Ingenuity is precious but so subjective,
But equally subjective to everyone,
Clarity sounds nice.

It sometimes hurts to think of everything at once,
So that when it comes out it is so simple.

Ingenuity can exist with clarity, but rarely does.