How can I say?

How can I say?
Why can't the pure passions, red,
Rise from my very depths direct?
No.
They must first pass
The awful toll-booth of my mind.
What price they pay.
Discounted and disconnected by reason.
Reason ruins as rocks wreck
The rolling of the waves.

Should I cut my hand
And smear myself on this page
Then say, This is what I feel?
No.
Even this thought is tarnished
By the very thinking of it.