There is pain in publishing work for me. So often, whatever grand mental revelation I feel I’ve made doesn’t take form the way I saw it in my mind. It looks lumpy, trite, or tawdry when brought out into the real world. I also bear a worry that the work will be misunderstood as an attempt on my part to appear deep and philosophical. The language I use can be antiquated, my sentences drawn out, and the content unapproachable and riddled with parentheticals and hyphenations. But it’s all true to me. This is how I see the world, and sometimes (often, always), it hurts to communicate. This poem’s probably about that.