Constipation

The words won't come, no matter what I try.
I say so many others every day,
And yet although I gnash my teeth and pray
For strength to say these, though I sit and cry
Beating my head against the wall, or sigh
In sunken slow despair, I cannot say
The words. I'd push them out another way
If it existed, but it doesn't. Why
Am I so blocked? The rest come tumbling,
An endless, meaningless tumult of words
An almost subinternal constant rumbling
That drowns out cars and trains and waves and birds,
But now I need them I am only mumbling
Crumbling them in my mouth like old potsherds.