exist beyond my reach,
encased in a block of ice
in my mind.
An ice pick, ideal;
but all I possess is a scraper.
By the time I extract the words
the conversation could be over,
my fellow collocutor onward to something new.
So I select alternate words
accessible, watered-down versions
of my stronger, more intentional ones,
opting to appear less intellectual;
the real me, frozen out,
waits for the thaw.