All i want is to be the bird and write with feathers
BE THE BIRD
There’s a bird in my throat and I can feel him
flapping his wings.
He gets exited whenever I see you,
He tries to fly out of my mouth and onto your shoulder
to sing all the words, I can’t say, in your ear.
There’s a bird in my throat and I can’t swallow around
that lump,
can’t swallow the feelings and almost can’t breathe.
He wants out and be free and shout this lines I can’t even whisper.
There’s a bird in my throat and he keeps getting twitchier.
His beak pokes my voice chords and makes them swing,
I can feel the sound of anger vibrating in my chest,
his feathers dry out my mouth when I cough them up.
There is a bird in my throat and he stopped tweeting.
I can’t hear the song anymore, I forgot how to sum it.
He’s weighting me down.
There was a bird in my throat and now he’s dead.
I have the choice whether to throw up a few poems
and bury him under words
Or to swallow the sadness and digest this love
and poop out the pile of shit our story was.
But all I want is to be the bird.
FEATHERS
I wrote so much in the last sixty months,
I forgot how to speak.
I’m more familiar with the scratchy noise of the pen in the book
than the sound of my own voice.
I’ve touched more silky paper
than rough skin.
Words printed on paper touched me more
than the hands of humans ever could.
In my dreams, I’m able to put the words in the right order
with just a movement of my fingers,
in reality I need hours to flip my brain over
and get the words out that lay hidden under my tounge.
I wish I could write with feathers,
light touch of soft fluff on pure white paper,
dark ink sinking in like a coffin into it’s grave.
Instead the hard, sharp end of the pencil crushing
onto dirty sheets of forgotten innocence,
pressing into the material like birthing a child.
Blood and placenta on the page,
a new born idea dammend to spend it’s life in just two dimensions.
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