"Oh, my talking bird
Though you know so few words
They're on infinite repeat
Like your brain can't keep up with your beak"

Flocks of planes intercepting the smoke trails they
carelessly left behind, interfering with the paths of the
black birds; playfully weaving in and out of
the mountainous sky. As I watched the slow,
intimate battle between steel, feathers and clouds,
all I could process was my hunger to fly amongst them.
I may not have wings, and I may not be designed to
brave the wind or the rain, but I promise you that I can fly.
And I promise that once I am given the chance, this cage
will be nothing but a mangled mess of wire, far, far behind me.

Sooner than I thought, I find myself in this empty house once again.
This time, less satisfying.
I am doing my best to interrupt the quiet with
screaming and singing, but somehow the quiet always wins.
I can hear it even now; over my attempts to be in tune and on key,
over the music I insist on making louder and louder, over the
interminable beating of my imprudent heart.
Usually a comfort, the noiseless space between these four walls
is quickly leaving me yearning for voices; ones that are willing
to guide me to where discord and content collide.

I've said these silly words to people less deserving.
No matter how much I open my mouth, no matter
how hard I try to expel these three, single syllable words
my throat closes up and my mouth sews itself shut.
I'm trying to defend myself. I'm not trying to protect myself.

As if money and I were not the finest of bedfellows prior to today,
I received a letter stating that I owe roughly $1,200 to
the state of Michigan. I'm not sure how I'm going to sweet talk
my way out of this mess. I'm always talking my way
out of the things I've done wrong.

I found a dead bee on the sidewalk.
I wonder what she did to deserve such an unforgiving death.
I've probably done worse and have been punished
with a lesser consequence.

When he tells me that everything is going to be okay,
I believe him. Not because he is particularly convincing,
but because he always tells the truth;
something I am rarely accustomed to hearing...
or feeling, for that matter.

While folding piles of mistreated, poorly constructed tshirts,
counting the minutes on my broken watches, black lines
from hangers lining my wrists, pop music pulsing in my ear,
children angrily tugging on the legs of their mothers,
I realized how unimportant most things are.
Life is so much bigger than this little world
I've regretfully created for myself.
I'm making it a goal to find the bigger things.
I want to feel it all.

My imaginary wings are growing weak.