Is it common, is it normal,
In its ever present hurdle
To be ever, always encumbered
By awful, constraining confusion

Why can't I ever manage
To speak of what I truly mean and hope?
Why is it so very, dreadfully strenuous
To paint on paper what I saw so well in thought?

Why have I never been able to
Tell the people I love that I really do care
How much I miss them, in their lack
And how I value their precious time in my presence...

Could it be my youth?
Ever-haunting me, in my incapable immaturity
My selfishness--
So overpowering, it controls me--

But I'm fairly certain
To the point of humble shame
The true reason I can never pinpoint my intentions--
I'm a human! The bane of all biology!

Am I to wallow in taxonomic pity
Cursed with powerful, commanding emotions
But a slave to the inabilities, fear,
But most of all--confusion

Still, is that not the beauty of human feelings,
With perplexity through the inability
To pinpoint whatever we truly mean
Comes art, beauty, (still confusion, evermore).