i’ve got this rock
in my head
and it’s not
in my throat.
if i stab
and i jab
can i see it?

will the rock
or the stone
fall free
when alone
or will it stay
in the way
of the voices?

i need to hear
to believe,
to see
to assess,
to taste
to undo,
to touch
to portray,
what it is
that i can’t
put to sounds.

but these things
in my mind
aren’t the right
kind of things—
if the right
kind of things
exist.
they’re twisted
and crooked
and feeble
and broken,
but i think
that they’d like
to be free.

if only,
if only
there wasn’t
this rock
lodged deep
in the nooks
of my head.

i’ve got this thought
on my mind,
and i can’t
get it out.
i have stabbed
and i’ve jabbed,
but where is it?

neither rock
nor the stone
was moved
by my shoves,
and they have stayed
in spite of
my protests.