Nothing New

Sitting down with pen in hand (I’m old-fashioned that way), 
Muse in mind, and distractions at bay, 
The ink flows freely but into ruts etched by Poe, 
Whitman, Yeats, and Cicero.
Lines that honor simplicities of youth–
Favorite snacks, the first lost tooth–
Bring no novel revelation 
Not first described in Eve’s temptation.
To convey pain in life, love, and all the rest,
I produce noisy reflections of the masters, at best.
So many men have walked the earth,
What can my simple observation be worth? 
Each new connection a thousand times made 
Not only by poets but by farmers, kings, and men on crusade.

Tired, I search for any relief
From my need to express an equally tired motif. 
Never can I think of anything new;
What good is this depression-inducing IQ?

But wait–a thought–could it be?
Finally a worthwhile soliloquy: 
Everything you feel’s been felt before, 
Sung in songs, passed down in lore. 
The beauty of man is not what makes us unique. 
It’s a small standard error; it’s a tall global peak. 
The best way to be happy with life, you see,
Is just to take comfort in uniformity.