Changed Attitude, Static Aptitude

There is more than just
one way of seeing things.
Have not all the classics taught
me this?
If it were not so,
the library would lack all
but one book
in its ancient stacks.
And yet for all my wonder of it
despair is still singular
companion
to my numbered hours with these sums.
I love the mystery,
would delve in if I knew the way
but well I know
the tyranny of
worlds inside the arc.
I can respect it.
Can break my pencil over it
and all the fragments of the wood
will fall in angles
with a measure,
and there will be a rule
for finding the circumference
of my tears.
To cry out in frustration
requires complication
of my vocal chords
to vibrate at a pitch-
which means the air must meet
with a surface area
to move a muscle deep
inside my throat.
But it will not escape.
I will squirm,
how many times before I solve the problem right?
My head throbs with attempts to still
(unsuccessfully)
the wild mind that will submit
to nothing stable.
And so math
with all its magic
remains a mystery to me
and I am free,
while yet imprisoned
in sweet ambiguity.