It’s hard to be here
And to be sincere
When you run on caffeine
And fear
But it’s easy to be coarse
To stay indoors
When you see the whole world through
The filter of remorse

There’s irony
In our struggle to resolve
In our vain attempt to state
That if we decompose the world
And isolate
The properties of every element
We can construct it bottoms-up
In all its former glory

Yet nature still resists
For it is not made of the details
But of all that manifest between
It is not balanced on a needle
But emerges from the pattern sewn
From the answer, not to “Why?”
But to “Why not?”

If we just distance the objective
From the subject, that is subjective by default,
And take a glance from far enough
The universe unfolds
A whole
Much larger than its parts

The same way motion
Is not defined for isolated sole
Same as color
Is never measured by a single pulse
The same way poetry
Does not exist within a single word
Creation
Is not the grains, but the coast whole
That lets us know just where
The sea begins

And now I can get over you the way I should have
Knowing I didn’t do all that I could have
Now I can wallow in regret
Cause my ego had done nothing but bring me dread.
Remorse.
It’s my own fault my hearts so coarse
Now you have two daughters with her
For better
For worse
This whole time I thought I was cursed
But I was just getting ready to ride the hearse
In a hurry to be buried
I’ve done my worse
This is all new
This part ain’t rehearsed  
You went from not even crossing my mind
To being  featured in my verse
It hit me like a ton of bricks
I hope this feeling
Ain’t the type that sticks

If my man finds out
He’ll have a fit
He’ll pick a corner for me to sit
Like a piece of furniture
But I guess this is what I get..

perfect poise
between diction
imagery and tone
measured rhythms
and true fine feelings
that fall like soft rain
to mirror humans
in tender moments
and coarse grim cameos
of things best forgotten
things nuanced and bitter
this vast field of experience
is the business of poetry
the art of aptness
the art of compactness
and incredible depths
leading to damp squibs
we search nevertheless
for unique form and content
that exercise in futility
till at last we rest from our labours
and we understand at last
poetry like life is a bitter-sweet  illusion