Thoughts that floated freely in my head
like iridescent clouds and dragons,
now chained to rigid letters and syntax,
too plain, too weak to contain them.

Thoughts like the wild rose
bloom best in the chaos,
but cruelly fade to remnants of love
under my tender care.

Thoughts as untamed as the stallion
who balks against my gentle touch
become a shadow of their former selves
when they submit to my pen.

Thoughts like the glorious sun
shine fiercely to light my path,
but my muse can only be recreated
in dull-yellow geometric forms.

They say write what you know,
but what I know does not want to be contained.
What I know wants to cower in the dark.
What I know is too frightened to become real.