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I find I can't dispute I've lost some skill
In speaking of my heart with eloquence;
It isn't that I'm bad at making sense
But rather that, attempt it how I will,
No matter what I say, it must seem ill
Because it cannot equal the immense
Pleasure it in theory represents
And since there's always pleasure left to fill
However much I pour and pour in words
In thundering great coalescing herds,
I feel inadequate; my utmost best
Can never in its greatest moment cope
With all my love, nor challenge it in scope.
My words are always worse than what's expressed.