There are only so many kinds of stress
And I find them, to understand what they are
By carrying them like buckets of iron ore across a tightrope
And I never shape them to anything
While I stare at their dark surfaces
And look for reflections of myself
In their small, unpolished chasms
And I don’t turn up to see where I’m going
Though I worry about my energy
And running out of water
Instead of wondering why I was fine taking these rocks in the first place
Because they’re just fucking rocks
And everyone says so
But now I’m trapped with them
And I have to wait until I can sell them to someone
Who knows how to turn them into something useful
Because all I can do is carry it
Someone else must turn it to ingot.