We're two feathers from the same bird,
tail and wing.
You can't tell when we're floating together
Which fell first, and which followed
What happened to the bird.
All we know is that some young thing will grip us in his tiny hands,
Pick us up from the dirty ground
And hold us together in-between two pudgy fingers
Imagining he can fly because of us.
But like a backbone the shaft holds it all together
The small filaments with hooks,
Holding on to each other like best friends,
Looking for support.
Because with out them loving each other,
And holding on tightly like a web of tightly woven fabric.
The birds would be cold, wet and miserable.
With out feathers birds could not fly.
This to would make them sad,
not being able to feel the wind on their faces.
The wind rustling their feathers.
Birds need feathers to make them beautiful,
With their iridescent colours feathers make birds beautiful.
With out feathers birds would be nothing.
Above our heads
is one giant pillow fight,
and all the feathers fall
from the white sky,
each one drifting
with thousands of others
to the cold ground
Explanation: A poem written in my own time.
You told me once
"People who attempt suicide
Are just angels trying to go home."
That would explain all the pinpricks on my arms
From where feathers fell out of my wings
And the way you made me feel like I didnt belong
And although I've kept trying
I don't know how I can make it home
When you've torn out so many of my feathers
together, we're like feathers.
we will go where the wind
takes us, we have no destination
or purpose, we are light
and flittering in the silver sun.
without you, I am heavier,
like a rock, like an island.
I don't know how to fly
but at least when you're gone
I can find some solid ground.
Stalking your cage
I notice your door
gleams ajar in the light.
“You’ve been out again,”
“warming your feathers
in the sun of a man
who will take you for granted;
they don’t understand
what I’d do for you.”
(Hinges scream shut,
alarmed by the cue.
Globular black eyes,
twin pin-pricks of tar
stare at me, unblinking;
This has gone too far.
I’d squeeze them right out
of your birdie head—
my heart was your marble;
it’s my turn, instead.)
But the impulse is nil,
a mellow chill.
I would never do that
of my own true will—
And the use of this cage,
I now clearly see
Is to keep monsters like you
from monsters like me.