声にならない言葉

You know in the Phantom Tollbooth, when Milo needs to steal a word out of that word vault, and he does it by holding a word that he'd begun to say on the tip of his tongue, closing his mouth around it, carrying it carefully back to the waiting cannon?

I feel like I'm carrying words around in my mouth, stuttering over them every time I try to talk. Except they don't even go together to form logically consistent thoughts, and I can never let them out because they'd mess everything up and I know it. And someday they'll dissolve, someday I'll be able to swallow. But I can't speed up that process.

Meanwhile, I'm feeling unmotivated to post things here because I don't know of anyone who actually reads it. It seems I talk to the people I'm actually in touch with often enough that we can catch up that way, and everyone else I'm either drifting out of touch with, or they don't have access to a computer. Plus, what I post isn't that interesting. So if anyone is reading this, please write a comment and tell me that you exist.

Instead of lyrics, here's an excerpt from a not-very-good poem:

I promised myself I’d go back first chance.
Pull over, tucked along the curve between mountain and river,
Pick my way up the jagged, overgrown stone steps
That rise and rise, disappearing into green.
I imagine a secret clearing,
Sunlight slanting against the steep ground,
Shadows playing across an ancient, decaying shrine.
Stone worn with the footsteps of families
Come to pray, come to remember, come to comfort themselves
With the ritual,
With the sunlight and shadows.

[....]

The stairs wind tantalizingly, beautifully, invitingly
Up and up, into the shadows.
I promised myself I’d go back, but my secret shrine
Can’t exist.
I promised myself, but
I haven’t gone back.