Simplicity

I don't get poems. Somehow they just don't make sense to me. Then all of a sudden it all came together for me. For once in my life the light worked its way through the clouds and for a brief moment in time...everything made sense.

CVIII
What's in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
What's new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must, each day say o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
Finding the first conceit of love there bred
Where time and outward form would show it dead.

It's simple. It's pure. You don't have to say anything extravagent or new because the love itself will always be new. This sonnet is perfect because I've never been a woman of many words when it comes to sentimentality.
I know all of this seems to hurt like a madman...but the pain makes me feel more alive than I have ever felt before.