Poetry should be read aloud

I'm not a writer, I'm a talker I have so many ideas, flowing like water from my mouth that a pen and paper only serve to dam up hampering their fluidity In a way, my spoken words are like improvisation I don't have to second guess them they blossom forth like springtime from the grasp of cruel winter In the air, my speech is free to live to ebb and sway like the tide following the movement of my tone Swaying gently in the breeze But Paper traps my words draining the life from them and they perish, like an eerie decoration of dead butterflies pierced with pins Fleeting beauty Maybe it is the impermanence of my spoken words Or their delicate elegance which makes them so precious They shine gloriously for an instant then are lost forever to time