Thoughts and ideas are bottled up in my head like butterflies in a net.
Fluttering around, trying to get out, vainly trying to escape.
Nothing comes of them,
it seems nothing ever will,
But they persist, they need release, they want to be freed.
If only they would really surface - breathe fresh air.
Because then, maybe, I'd have peace.

by R.M. Alexander

Comments (1)

sounds like all poets are the same, john