Poems for the Sad and Weary

My Own Season

 

No one ever questions why birds stand in a line,

On wires, on ledges, on edges

I don’t understand why there is a need to explain

The reason why my character cannot be squeezed into pages 

Of a consolidated stereotype. No one ever

Wonders why cats have mood swings

And dogs love unconditionally, so why on earth

Is there a need for humans to wonder why our wings 

Have to be tangible? Must we truly have feathers

Sewn onto our backs to be able to fly up high?

Is it not possible for our minds to work its magic

And seek a path that is secret. I spy 

Questions that never truly end and I don’t see

Why I have to give a reason why

My mind records down moment after moment,

Why my heart cannot stop wishing to fly. 

I have no answer as to why I throw tantrums

Because maybe the colours in my head

Are far too bright for me to contain, splashed inside,

Outside, everywhere until it’s a murky brown-hate 

That cannot disappear and maybe it’s better to be brown

Than to be red and destructive. I don’t understand

Why some days, I can feel love and other days,

My heart is a stone that cannot comprehend 

Anything and everything. I don’t have reasons,

There is only existence at this point and in the end,

Are we not all animals too, ruled by basic instinct?

Maybe I can overthink, maybe I can plan 

But you know in the end, I shouldn’t need to

Give an answer because hey, I don’t need a reason

To fly, to climb, to go into metamorphosis,

To transform, to change, to live by my own season.