Little bird
Corrupted
No longer a symbol of
Freedom and flight.

Little bird
Distorted
Your flutterings haunt
My featherlight, restless
Dreams.

Little bird
Polluted
Hover no more, Horror feathers
have no place here,
Migrate, away, begone.

I do not match
The colours you have chosen,
But I will let you paint a picture
Of a predatory me.
The teeth and claws
Were yours
And they dug deep
But I won't weep
for the masterpiece you've wrought,
All red, all red
But I am blue.
It's breathtaking, that work of art,
I think the two of you should buy it
And hang it in your happy home.
Your talent and imagination
Knows no bounds,
And neither does your capacity
for lies.

Wisdom teeth
grinding up under
gums
ready to rupture
this is torture

I want to unknow myself,
So that I can read my poems
And build up a picture,
Understand what people see.

I want to have an opinion of that person,
Without knowing wider context
Inner workings,
Motivation,
Or history.

I speculate, that perhaps I seem
Schizophrenic,
Perhaps I seem
bizarre?

If I didn't know me
Would I even want to read
that person’s work?
Or would I dismiss it as
The sentimental ranting
Of someone needy,
(self obsessed?)

Would I think
That person is
clearly ****** up?

Or worse,
Would I just think her writing is mundane
And not worth following?

Would I read one work
And judge all the rest,
Skip over the name
Whenever I saw it
Dismissing all, as trite and overblown?

I hope that I would recognise
A kindred soul.
It depends, I guess,
On who I would be
If I were not me.

In answer to your question
(Which cut me to the core)
I cry because
I am not allowed to love
Who I want,
The way I want,
And this is an impossible demand.
I keep my heart in a cage
So that others don’t get hurt,
But I do,
Over and over again.
I take the punches,
As if I deserve them.
The world is an abusing spouse,
And I, the frightened little mouse,
Comply.