I am a bird. · 6:30am Mar 2nd, 2014
I sit back on an average day
Behind my glass window pane
And watch countless flocks of birds
Fly in perfect little V's.
When they're tired they stop for lunch—
They peck endlessly at the dirt.
And as I watch I start to wonder:
"What do caged birds do for worms?"
Do they make a siren's call?
Maybe look upon the rails?
Or do they sit within their walls
And eat only what is given?
Perhaps they fear the outside world.
Who could blame them? I've sure seen it.
I too live within those walls,
Eating only what I have before.
But there's a difference, caged bird,
And it's pretty hard to admit.
You can't unlock that cell of yours,
But I can leave at any time.
To the world, we're both songbirds
Sitting pretty in the glass.
But you wouldn't know us if you looked
Because we decide what they can see.
We're both too strong to fly,
Or love, or really care.
So composed we live another day
And now I finally see:
It's just these walls—
There's never been nothing else.
I am a bird.
But I caged myself.
You are a word.
My cage is sin. But who can let me out?
Got back on this site for the first time in months, only to see this as the most recent notification.
The relevance to my own lamentations only a few minutes ago, is startling.