Poetry

Bird

Maybe, I am a bird.
You see, I can choose to soar high like an eagle
Fearless of the grounds below.
Or I can choose stay low on the damp, fearful soil of the earth
Like a vulture, looking to feast on another's suffering.

What would I look like?
Perhaps my feathers are eccentric with exquisite colors, reflecting my prismatic soul.
But, maybe they're just brittle
and grey like my twisted,
demised mind.

How would I sound?
Would I chirp loudly and chivalrous in a sing-song with my content heart
Or would my razor sharp beak
Be sewn shut with the fear
That this world has created?

Yes, yes. I am a bird.
I am flying constantly, searching for the right plot of land to rest.
But the wind keeps me going, pushing, in flight.
I don't know which way to go,
but i am not following
the others in the flock.
They all want the same thing,
But I cannot live like that.
No, no that's not me.
I don't know who I am,
But I know exactly what I want.