Queries And Vents Of A Poet

GROUNDED BY BODY

Inspired by: THE VILLAGE^^
QUESTION: What kind of bird is your favorite?

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The bird with a few bones crushed and molded, not to his liking. Those bones. Seemed to cause him pain as he flew away from home to other places. The bird sat in the nest. 
The bird was judged for his falsehoods, 
For the lies he told himself. 
The lies. 
The bird, knew better. 
For even though he could not protect someone else's falsehoods, 
He would give life and limb for his own. 
What you call a falsehood, could be. 
Just a truth, hidden behind,
His body and silenced voice, 
Which yearned to Screech out. 
He the bird. 
Cannot control his wings, 
The wings that molded again to become new. 
Did not cause pain. Not as much. But a little.
He could not work them, 
He could not make his body work. 
Not properly,
He did the best he could, 
And to him. 
That was proper enough. 
Yet to others, saying that was proper enough. Nothing,
But a falsehood. 

This was a truth he would defend to his end. 
He the bird. 
He the bird, with color. 
Any bird,
More colorful than the flock. 
Brings unwanted attention, 
And therefore.
He the bird. 
Is attacked by the flock. 
The color a threat to the rest.
To go against the falsehoods of a constructed, expected Nature.
Which is to him, 
To many.
Not nature at all.
So distressed,
By expectations placed on a she. 
That he would pluck his own feathers out, 
If not. 
For the others

Who taught him, 

Punishment to his body for growing, 

Brought Only pain to him. 
And in turn. 
He often wanted to pluck the feathers. 
For feeling that he, 
was he. 
And not she. 
Not the she, 
The flock would have wanted.
But he, 
To be attacked, for his truth. 
Their truth. 
Truth itself, 
Relative to the perspectives of all
Who have and will have lived.
Could be different. 
Is different. 
The bird who could,
Who would fly away,
Follows. 
In fear of leaving the nest. 
His body, 
It's imperfections. 
Ground him. 
Hope, ever fleeting. 
Hope, that perspective can change.