Seeking Meaning

I cannot defend
my lack of years
my lack of tears
my lack of guilt

I will always regret
the tears and sweat
that I've put upon your face

For it is a disgrace
the things I've done
the thoughts I've thunk
the things I've done to you

When I killed that man
in the cabbage patch
at half-past 3 am

When I killed that man
that I knew you loved
that I, too, loved
that I knew was marked for greatness

When I killed that man
with a knife to the heart
with a mind full of rage
with a mind ablaze
 with many a myriad thought

I could almost say it was jealousy
(i know that I cannot)

I could almost say it was hatred or spite
(but i know that I cannot)

I could even say it was impulse to slay that man who I knew and who knew not what he wrought
(but still this thing that i want to say--
 i know but one thing: say it, I cannot)

For it was not calculated
nor can I say that I hated
that man, though I often berated
him for things that control them?  He could not.

For the reason that I did all these things that I did
was simple in the extreme
was harder to digest
    than powdered ice cream

And even I could give you a ream
of paper to show the things I did
of paper to show you these things that I did
of paper on which to pour out my sin
of paper, cathartic, explaining my doing
of paper, incredible, pure white and blank,
          and innocent, available, asking me to taint it

An I could give you a billion words to explain all the pain which I caused
   I could give you only two

NO REASON.