The words are stuck
In this throat of mine.
I try to unleash them,
But I don't know why I bother trying.
What's the point?
I see no point to any of it
And still the words are stuck.
They swim in my head,
Like tiny, little fishes.
I'm a terrible fisherman;
I should mention that now.
"Explain yourself!" The people say,
And I try.
I try very hard, but the little word-fishes
Seem to always evade my hook.
I simply stand there, in a daze,
Mouth wide-open like a grouper.
Opening.
Closing.
Searching.
Grasping.
Wishing that I could find the right words.
But still, the words are stuck.
The people become angry,
Because they are hungry for my words.
But I'm an awful fisherman,
So they shouldn't rely on me.
So I stand there, gaping.
Opening and closing my mouth again,
While the waves of my mind are crashing
On the walls of my self-control.
I fight hard, trying to sail through
These hazardous oceans.
But it is to no avail.
I'll end up alone again,
Gasping and choking for air as
The waves drown me.
And even still,
The words are stuck.