gagged

i haven't. 
i can't.
words are crawling away from my hands before i can catch them.
i can't catch them. 
not words. they're not words. 
what's that other thing called?
roiling swirling magma of colors of um, feelings? is that it?
i have too much fundamental confusion. 

we live under a magnifying glass here, me and my magma. i am that leaky kind of volcano. 
the one you watch closely in case of explosion. 

my face is being stabbed over and over so that is not helping.
murky thoughts. 
i haven't words. or they're not the right ones. 
aphasia of the both kinds. 

i'm afraid i'll vomit tea again if i can't vomit words. 
but i can't find them. 
just this kettle cavity of boil, boil, toil and trouble. 
certainly we're waiting to see about that. 

words? 

i can't understand if i can't write
but i guess i can't write if there's a fundamental inability to understand. 
need a vulcanologist. explain to me lava. explain how to stop up the cracks. explain how to put the earth to sleep. 
and a poet to find my words. 
they're hiding and i know it because i can feel them, i just can't grasp.
they call it groping. that would be dysarthria, to continue the co-morbidities. 

maybe it's a visual field cut. 
maybe they're just right over there, if i turn my head. 
if it's left side neglect, that's the end. imagine the clock hands. i will see but never recognize. 
i will be lost.