With no sense of self preservation
she does fly over
to perch on fingers
in a silent act of trust
And yet the hand she chooses
wraps around her
They squeeze as if to find out
how much blood and pain
they can draw out
The bird is too vulnerable
too weak
too helpless
She waits in agony
for the torture to cease
the fingers to release
so she can limp away
into the sky
on injured wings
Yet she comes back
every time
because these hands that feed her
are the only ones she knows
And she knows not how
to defend herself from the hands
that raised her
And her trust
flows on
from her heart
that somehow always has that little bit more
from a heart that still generates more
Someone help me
protect myself
from the hands
that offer so much in lies
and give so much
in hurt
Someone protect me
from my hope
from my faith
from my belief
For as much as these things power my wings
So too are they the reason I am broken
--
(AN: This poem is dedicated to Night, for being a person who never crushed my wings, for allowing me time to perch and heal, for being gentle and kind and loving when I so sorely needed it - and when I still do need it - and for giving me the breeze needed to tentatively take flight again. I love you.)
YOU ARE READING
A Work In Progress
PoetryThis is merely a collection of poetry that I decided to start. It contains works I've completed and will be added to as the year progresses. I wanted to see if I could write a poem a week, which will be especially interesting considering my fluctuat...
