clipped wings

I can be free. Soaring above all.

I can be me. Not afraid to fall. 

When I ride this beast we call peotry.

It lifts me high. It gives me wings.

Often,  I sigh. I see beautiful things. 

When I clutch to the back of poetry.

I feel the rush, I kiss the wind.

I want so much to remain un-pinned

as I race all over with just me and my peotry.

I feel her tire, she is beggining to slow.

It is not my disire to kill her, you know.

and so, gently and slowly, I land near the creek.

I give her food, and make sure she is warm.

I will not intrude again until morn'.

When finaly my poetry is rested and happy.

While she sleeps, I dream and pretend.

I take great leaps, but with no successful end.

I can not fly without poetry.

Sometimes I stagger, usually I trip.

I hear a splatter, and now I drip.

yet still I must trudge all the way back to that beast we call poetry.

Poetry lets me fly, it lets me be free.

Although I do try, I can't fly when it is just me.

It feels as though I am a bird with clipped wings.