Inspiration to the nation
That’s what I’m all about.
Inspiration to the world,
That without a doubt.

I’m a Meerkat teaching the kids to forage
Something much juicier than porridge,
But I show everyone how to dream
Of better pastures
Full of honey and whipped cream.

Meerkats may have lookouts, nannies and fighters
But they are smart little blighters
Capable of vision
In spite of facing derision.

Imagination is the key
To shaking off our shackles
(Whatever they may be)
And running free.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\5\2020.

My brain is a middle school notebook
Every day I write your name inside
With random sketches the cover holds in
For emotions I can’t easily hide

My heart is a jelly pen
A schoolyard craze, of that there’s no doubt
It pins my last name to you in my middle school notebook
And as costly as it is, I pray it won’t run out

I find remnants of the dreamer I used to be in-between the mundane
twelve years old and my eyes had seen more than most will in a lifetime
but I loved with every fiber of my being
I loved the cities I'd never been to and the life I hadn't lived
and all the things I knew I was meant for with the sweetest ignorance for how to get there
you can find me underneath all the evidence of my surviving
my heart just as thirsty as the little ******* her bedroom floor

I lay in bed most nights
Hoping
you would hit up my phone and wonder
where I've been
and what I've been up to
But I know you never will
I know you don't really care
or at least that's what my overthinking alter ego tells me everyday
Not the way I do at the very least
Only message when I'm wanted
Taking my help for granted
Only message when you want something
Because what I want means nothing
Right
?
I've always been in your corner
Ready to assist
But when I'm in the ring
I box without a shadow
Memories are the only thing I've got going for me
My only link to reality
My only link to what we once were
Without them I wouldnt make it through most days
And I wish I could say the same for you
But I know you don't feel the same
So I get ready to drift away
The lonely dreamer
Who never really dreams

here's to the glass slipper you refused to wear,
the flower you didn't let them braid in your hair.
they called you princess and gave you a crown,
fed you from silver, threaded silk for a gown.

delicate, precious, frail as a daisy,
"you mustn't do that, you should sit like a lady,"
ordained to be queen but holding much bigger dreams,
they'd come running when you broke at your seams.

suitors so fit, deemed worthy by father
princes so charming, speaking of gardens of flowers.
you delayed your answers, you bought time to yourself
to discover who you were, behind expectant smiles.

How is one here
Presented with endless possibilities to explore
Days and days ahead of them to navigate
Through Earth’s greatest treasures
Yet at the same time they are not here
Instead focusing on the box assumed as habit
Worshipping paper to depend their experience on
Freedom engulfed by invisible barriers, fences
Borders striving to sustain what is unsustainable
And how is one here
Gifted breath from the early beginning  
Decorated with hope and ambition, love and protection
Nurtured in freedom to talk, and move
Yet at the same time they are not here
Placed behind a colorless cell
Imposed on them is a paper which determines them
Who they are, their whole being, wrapped up in the finger of a single sheet
How is one here
Dancing with the assumption of being a free
human
Yet jailed in the arms of a ruthless system