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