[ 9. 16 ]
birds of a feather flock together
but what if we're all
caged?
these gilded bars mean nothing,
the unwanted audience poking in,
invading my peace
means nothing. (nothing but a source of irritation)
all i've got i a nice call,
fears,
tears (silent and loud alike) acquired over days, months, years
no space for me to be dree,
spread my golden wings
and y'all be DAMNED if thi nightengale
finds freedom
on her own accord.
it's fine....
nothing i can do
but pace the perimeter...
just don't ask me to fly
no damn more
and don't tell me i cry
so pretty.
YOU ARE READING
past oblivion.
Poetry"what can i really say?" used to be my words, when i didn't know as much. when i got older, i responded to myself. "everything." now, i realize that i can use my breath to speak on everything in existence, from dust on jupiter to the depths of hell...
