A Cradle for Wisdom

it hits me like pins.
It starts with a slight pinch, and then it pricks deeper,
and deeper. But there is no blood, there is no visible wound
to be seen, only this feeling: that no one else can touch, or feel,
or understand.

I keep grasping for ways to reach those ways,
by saying,"This is what it is like. Understand,"
but every time, I get this puzzled expression
that begs an explanation, deeper than the words
I have meaning for.

I feel as if I've failed you by being unable to express the
torment that beckons me with a simple thought, triggered by a word,
a smell, a slight miscalculation or misunderstanding.

My words are as drunk as the thoughts
which cannot formulate themselves or
lull themselves to sleep,
they cannot be a cradle for wisdom.

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