Poor, poor bird
aiming high, flying low,
off the red-dot radar—
just a one-woman show.
Poor bird so tired,
squinting at the lovely sky,
body beaten and mind a blur,
dirty wings too weary to fly.
Poor, poor bird,
why do they judge you so?
The only crime you commit
is living your life as only you know.
Little bird, wouldn’t you stop them
from poking at your nest?
Their callused fingers prod deep,
knowing how to hurt you best.
Baby bird, fly away in search
of my weathered, wretched souls.
I am ready to patch me up,
growing tired of being un-whole.
