collection

the bird

(written to be read as spoken-word)
There is a bird inside my rib-cage,
I swallowed it whole four years ago.
Its weight drags my feet further and further into the earth below
And its screeches never cease.
Sometimes I worry that it will kill me
And other times I wish it would.
Occasionally,
it would scratch at my lungs and bruise my ribs with its flailing,
It doesn't do that anymore though,
Sometimes I wish it would.
The talons reminded me that I was still here.
But now the bird simply lies inside my chest making it difficult to breathe.
There is no longer fury in its wings, only the burnt out embers of what used to be.
I fear that the bird has died and that his little bones are the only part of him left to weigh me down.

I dream about freeing the bird, cutting open my lungs and letting his dark feathers seep away,
Tearing skin from bone and bone from bird.
That would surely kill me, but at least the bird could be free.

I have written this poem a thousand times and I will write it a thousand more
Because I want it to be perfect
I will say to you a thousand times that perfection is unattainable
and yet I will try a thousand times to attain it.
That is the curse of the bird
I'm beginning to conquer my bird,
But like a long had pet, it is difficult to let go
A close friend, a pretty drug, it's difficult to put down
But when I do,
The entire universe will know
Because I will sing without feathers I my throat,
Because I will paint without darkness in my eyes,
And because I will wake up in the morning to see the sun rise
And I will walk for miles because I want to
And I smile and smile and smile
Until my face forgets the shape of a frown