Fishy

Some poems I write are incomplete
Like a fish thrown onto land
Gasping for air that's everywhere
They die beneath my hand

Unlike a fish, my poems breathe again
If words are given in time
But still they can smother without some thought
Towards their structure and rhyme

It seems like a waste to leave them there
As fragments, or mangled lines without close
It is much like taking a thought to be shared
And burying it so no one knows

The loss of any idea seems to be a great shame
No knowledge is worthless in my eyes
All concepts, any thought with a name
Should be preserved and known, 'fore it dies.

So now I look back to the words incomplete
And mourn for those forever lost
Though their presence remains among many ink stains
And depressions underneath still embossed