Poem: Trying


There’s some sort of effort,
on most days,
things that are seen nearby,
things that are seen over there,
and things that are seen in other places.

There’s thoughts,
and ideas,
and plans,

there’s reading,
and studying,
and applying what seems like unrelated knowledge.

There’s those moments,
when the hands are together,
and the little box is opened,
and the little hope is opened,
and nothing is inside.

For some reason,
there’s logic,
there’s statistics,
there’s the idea that it just should work,

there’s effort,
and strain,

and so many things,
that just don’t seem to be.

And then there’s this sigh,
and there’s tiredness at trying to explain,

and there’s trying.