a reflection written in an attempt to understand my thoughts/the world

I wish I could tell you this is poetry;
Imperfect but acceptable, art, expression, understanding, the solution to some question i could not answer otherwise,

        but I have written pages upon pages of text, lines upon lines that I think have been pleading for months just a taste of the satisfaction, the contentment, the freedom of simplicity, the reassurance of a known ending (for there is nothing more comforting than the knowledge of one’s own finality) and nothing has come-

The words won’t sit right, as though my hand shakes and my ear can no longer pick up the words the trees whisper and the cities yell, lost to the wind, and any image I draw from ends up blurry and off, as though there is one concept I must write before any other, in order to understand, but that concept doesn’t exist,

and I cannot help but think that the words I typed all those months ago have been true, that some indistinguishable drone has begun and drowned out the meaning from prose and poetry alike, taken its cause and its drive until what was once language of our souls is now foreign, untranslated-

and so this writing doesn’t make much sense at all- it doesn’t solve anything, isn’t pretty, and has never rhymed, because I truly have given up trying to force my way through this drone in order to make the words describable.

That one, true, image, the one I felt I must translate just slightly into sentences, would be the story of the seeming downfall of our world, the tragedy of our self-destruction, the cruelty of genocide and ignorance, but that poem has been written a thousand times by the streets and the stars themselves in much better words than I could ever hope to use. And so, even still, even as I try, it is just as hard to grasp as any other. And I, in all my little knowledge, would refuse to except it without a moral ending, which the stars have long since accepted is not always the case.