Little birds and little bugs
Fly so close to the ground
A kind of car-level lowness
That is detrimental
Near-death experiences
Upon each flight
So why can I not do the same
Let me fly low to the ground
Whether my guts spew
On the windshield
Or by some happenstance
I survive
I care not what becomes of me
It's that time of the year when butterflies and other like creatures end up splattered on car windshields.
YOU ARE READING
Poems of an anchor
PoetryI'm a poet, and yes, I know it I am very fond of poetry and writing. I'm the kind of person who never verbalizes my feelings. I prefer to write them down, transforming them into literary works of art. Words bear comfort and catharsis for my heart an...
