venting spleens

the curse of a certain kind of intelligence:
one's voice becomes muted by the awareness
of a myriad other eyes and ears
stacked up to the ceiling like a buddhist pantheon
all with secret drooling teeth
hidden beneath their faded robes.
how, to crawl up beneath that crushing weight
of exponentiated reflection
and speak in little more than
a hesitant mewling?

the curse of a certain kind of intelligence:
the double boiler of inspiration, insight and passion
may be set over high-licking flames
but the water's thin and near-evaporated,
and the second receptacle is insulated
by too-thick metal and layers of teflon.
most thoughts will never cook to completion,
half-baked and raw with shame
while the small remainder
burn holes through the pot
and all pleasant conversation.