I was born with many words,

Better words than I can say;

Every time, before I catch them,

Those word-birds fly away.

This might be for the best;

If one nested in my mind,

Whose to say what sort of mess

It'd become when it was mine?

With a pessimistic mind

And an optimistic heart,

I am a great destructive force,

Doomed before I start.

I've the sort of brain to twist

Every elegant idea

Into a battered, bumbling list

Of reasons why it can't be real.

But, the thoughts, the things to say,

They make me need to breathe.

Though I'll never do them justice,

I cling to their relief.