Even Words Aren’t Free

My words are all frozen in place

So that all I can do is pace

And wish my thoughts could be conveyed;

This silence chokes and I’m dismayed,

For even words aren’t free.

Why is my greatest poetry

The kind that screams from out of me

When I am tortured by a thought,

So that, by pain, each phrase is wrought

To ink my agony.

It is so hard, in peace of mind,

Powerful poetry to find.

For even this poem is pain

And will not let my hands refrain

From spelling out my woe.

The misery of mind and heart,

Or trials that split and tear apart

In ragged screams, are yet deemed kind

When compared to this state of mind

That will not let words flow.

And so I wonder, so I wait

Hoping e’en as I ruminate:

Perhaps my words may somehow be

Thawed by inking the blood from me,

For even words aren’t free.