’m not here
To judge the world
I’m not here
To make pretend that
I have all the answers
All I know is that
What I feel is real
I’m not here to gain your attention
For my reward solely comes
From above
And It does not come
To  fill my ego
It does not come
to make me famous
Or win the race
It comes
Solely to filled my heart
By setting free
All the pains inside
The gratitudes
The hopes
The darkness
And the light
All that was meant to be free.

I love to tell a story
Factual or made up.
And I love to type free verse,
Even the occasional rhyme
From time to time.

Love making conversation
Watching telly
Playing on Facebook
And surfing that ocean called The Worldwide Web.

In the nineteen sixties or seventies or whenever
I read a book in Pudsey Library
About a teacher who encouraged his students
To express themselves fully in free verse.

He wrote of short lines that
Shock!
And longer lines that linger in their elucidation of logical algorithms.
But otherwise there were no rules,
No doggerel-metres to follow,
Just freedom of expression.
So now I write this way myself.
Or rather, type.

And I keep typing.
Always typing.
One thing or another.
Constantly compelled to type
Something or other
Whether it’s a piece like this
Or not.

I keep on posting
And sharing
On the internet
Posting and sharing.
Hoping of course
That you will heed my words
And maybe have a go
Yourself.

Paul Butters

© PB 22\2\2023.

We need a heart that is bigger than average if every decision we make leads to eventual regret.

Is for your reference
To make your present memorable
And better your future.
22/2/2023