To Be Free

I envy the birds that fly.
Why can't I have that freedom?

I envy the trees with their fingers in the clouds.
Is that too much to ask for?

I envy the ink as it spills from the pen.
Why is it not that simple?

I envy the words that climb across the page.
Ah, to be as free as them!

I envy poetry, with its rhythm and rhyme.
To have such structure would be a blessing.

I envy prose, with its impeccable elegance.
Klutzy old me just stumbles through life.

I envy novels, with their easy worlds to escape to.
Behind bars, it's easy to long for greener pastures.

I envy the freedom that I feel in the timbre of words.
They make it seem so easy.

I envy them.
I write to feel, for the barest moment, their freedom.