Every time i chase
a  thought or emotion
in its carefree fantastic flight
and try to clothe  it
with motley syllables
and myriad words
I'm not quite a poet,
No sir, not quite!
And so i cry a bit
because i know
I'm catching a butterfly
and crushing her delicate wings
and like a ******,
laughing in joy
at her anxious agony
as she flutters and dies,
petrified in the sticky amber
of my words.

If only i could sing instead,
like the cuckoo outside my window!
he never ever chases them,
he just lets them soar
on the wings of his notes
far into the inky silent night.
And those thoughts and emotions
start singing sweet songs
of love and angst and pain,
of lust and loss and longing
of betrayal and separation.

And lying in bed sleepless,
I listen.
And I cry.