What We Tell Ourselves When we Write a Poem, or Let the Big Dog Shit

May I write one line of human sorrow,

And, in that line, cast a capsuled gel of

A past, passing, or pass-once-moreing joy.

In doing so may our pain be easier swallowed,

May our joy be not happiness merely borrowed.

For what is sorrow, but a grief?

And what is grief, but a brief

And all pithy quarrel with ourselves?

When you loved yourself so long-far ago,

Then solitude was but a muslin dress

You could finger off your sunbaked shoulder

And be content with own eyes for own breasts.

And though one must feel at times so distant--

Hearts, minds, loves--all are still insistent.

But some might say, “What is this injustice?  This denying griefs?”

I have my answer: “Time, change, the worm that eats all our days,

Will spin all sorrow’s silk from mulberry leaves. ”

Fukn Lulz. People are rotten.