Words and Birds

Sometimes I run out of words.

And sometimes they fly like latterly freed birds.

I long not to become a poet.

I just happen to have poetry in my thoughts and I wish to show it.

I hope cries are heard if they're at least shaped as art.

But I've lost why I really write somewhere deep in my heart.

Why is this the salvation my soul yearns for?

Why does poetry once start flowing wishes to flow more?

This satisfaction of a feeling perfectly explained

Is the freedom of another bird once chained.