Words and Birds
Words and Birds


Sometimes I run out of words.
And sometimes they fly like latterly freed birds.
I long not to become a poet.
I just happen to have poetry in my thoughts and I wish to show it.
I hope cries are heard if they're at least shaped as art.
But I've lost why I really write somewhere deep in my heart.
Why is this the salvation my soul yearns for?
Why does poetry once start flowing wishes to flow more?
This satisfaction of a feeling perfectly explained
Is the freedom of another bird once chained.