Deformed

This, my half-full glass, my half-formed thought
it was deformed, I should think, and something more
but I could not dare to think it through,
I do not want to see it true.
It frightens me,
my thoughts, the ones I cannot speak. I try to--
no one wants to hear. Even so, I yell to iron bars
clawing around my throat; wrapping around my mouth
the air barely presses through with bursts of noise.

This chest is filled with a muzzled soul, piped up to
a mouth straining under tastes of a metal clamp.
Somewhere between the muffled mutterings comes
a word which rests in an ear for a while.
It floats alone, its friends remain within a mind
which cannot send them out. A voiceless scream,
shrieks, a cry - that is all he hears when honesty
betrays a mind buckling under strains of reflection.

That this muzzle would rust away, and my world
would sputter forth like the Creator’s word.
That is wisdom: the absence of a hindrance.