Did you forget how to fly?
Did you lose yourself in the thorns of the nest that cradled you?
Did the memories of your first time, teetering too close to the edge,
Wake you in the night?
That leap was magical, it was the first time you knew,
That the endless sky was yours, and it’s wind would carry you.
Broken bird, you are not less,
Because the world stole a feather,
So sit with me a while and watch the orange sun sink low into the sky.
Close your eyes and feel the breeze, ruffling between your wings.
Let determination set into your tired eyes.
Broken bird, you are not alone.
Broken bird, tonight we fly.
Who said I knew nothing,
Of the breeze that glides through trees.
Their leaves sing songs of grace,
Vibrating to and thro with ease.
Who said I cared not,
For the puffs of cloud that rain –
Tears of the sky –
Another heavy burden to be slain.
Like this voice inside my head,
Who whispers songs at night
Of Melodies to fear,
And sinful souls to smite.
One of which I am – selfish, dim, and vain.
“Who said I needed life?”
Demands the voice inside my head,
And I listen, all the same.
Photo by Adrian Swancar on Unsplash
What hurts the most
Is not the unanswered questions,
It is not the circle I refuse to walk; round and round.
It is the sound of your voice,
When you said that I gave up hope.
It is the click of the phone,
When my words no longer served you.
It is the fear that lingers,
Knowing you will never follow me;
And you will never be free.
Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash
The sword was already there,
Of this, I made sure.
Primed and ready for the taking,
I am a cocooned butterfly,
And I will emerge once again.
Not today, I tell her.
Today you can not have me.
Today you can not ravage me,
Like a glutton for my bones –
I shall deny you in hushed tones -no
– a single whispered line,
“Leave me be, insecurity.
Today you will not have me.
Today I am mine.”
Ensconce me in your warmth,
And wrap my skin in sweet joy.
Bite deep, like a leech-
Sucking away until every last drop-
Of loneliness excretes- from this desperate soul,
Before I sink too low.
Days of isolation sting sharp,
Like a fresh cut.
Raw, oozing blood,
Pooling at the seams of these poorly sewn stitches.
For which I am to blame-
For I am the seamstress,
Sewing tight my own demise.
And I am the surgeon-
Cutting out my hollowed eyes.
For they have done me a disservice,
And I no longer see the light.
Nevermore have I needed hope.
Nevermore have I needed sight.
Photo by: Kristina Tripkovic on Unsplash
Peace sweeps through the alter,
On one stormy eve.
But, pray tell, what reprieve –
Could bless such scorched earth, that I do walk?
As I do sing, the winds to sleep.
Once I failed,
Twice I caved.
And now, what new sins doth do creep?
Quieten my jaded voice,
And drench my skin in salty fears.
For now, I see no path for which I am meant to walk.
For now, I see no action, for which I am meant to fake.
Only for now, I say I am done.
A small reprieve, for this liar’s sake.
(featured image taken on a clear day before the storm)
Photo by Mauricio Artieda on Unsplash
Soft petals fall,
On the ground, too slow.
Who am I, but a distant eye,
Bitterly waiting, on the black crow,
Anxiously eyeing that woody stem,
As stormy winds draw near and wreak mayhem.
‘Too slow,‘ I say,
The girl on the hill.
The lady behind glass.
Wet cheeks pressed against a shattered window sill.