Poetry is everything I cannot say,
born from restraint,
the fortress of my heart the gates of my lips.
Ink is sweet release.
Midnight insomnia, coupled with Steely Dan,
spawns images beyond my reach.
Poetry is an attempt to grasp
every particle in the universe,
condensing kingdoms and galaxies
to words and stanzas.
Poetry is impossible.
It is incomplete.
Stargazing, I view the words
I will never comprehend.
There are worlds beyond our own to visit
just as there is poetry still to write.
Those who look through telescopes,
and write in stardust, they are the catalysts,
composing the constellations of verse.
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