Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Sometimes, I struggle with humility. I fumble around with poetry seldom worth reading, by Cicero's scale or any other systematic approach to time-wasting. I don't know why I feel the need to be understood; the pursuit of happiness has brought me none. Still, I write. As I put every popular song written for teardrops into my mental catalogue, each one makes me feel closer to that breakthrough I so readily covet. The songstress' name doesn't matter anymore: most of the songs sound the same to my weary ears. To a certain extent, the music industry, poetry, and the art world trade tears for tender. Most songs in my library are sad ballads whose authors could never know how perfectly their words reflect my feelings during any number of my psychotically-fed, dizzy moments, but that's not the point. That perfection is the foundation of my megalomania; still, I write. If a songstress can pull such profound emotions out of a song that has nothing to do with me, I can write a poem that does the same. So my lack of humility is threefold: I believe I can write well enough to be understood; I imagine that somewhere out there, someone will read one of my missives with the kind of perfection that lingers on my lips when I listen to Alison Krauss sing about a lucky one; finally, despite the intellectual and historical undeniability of the falsehoods in first two folds of my humility, I still deeply harbor the notion that I will be heard, understood, and loved peacefully in the same manner I imagine when I listen to my favorite love songs on radio stations brokering in unrequited affection turned commercial with a few songs from a silver disc. Still, I write.