Today I ripped up the first "I love you" note you ever gave me.
It felt good, admittedly.
It felt like fearlessness.
It felt like freedom.

She was my warm cup of tea
at midnight after a nightmare.
She was my fresh from the dryer blanket.
She was my favorite book,
a new glasses cleaning cloth.
She was sugar for my coffee.
She was beautiful,
But I could never say
I loved her.

Listen, it's a beautiful thing
when distilled to its essence;
reduced to its purest form.
A paradox and a paradigm;
a paragon of perfection.
Epic in its arythmetic
progression; poetic.
Like Chinese arithmetic,
so hard it hurts. Yet soft
and exquisite, like a bubble
of love caught in a beating heart.
That place where poetry starts.

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

When can I go to the place we dream?
I can’t see through stained glass windows
Or read words in a faraway language
But I see the tears carving their story
And the images reflected by the stream

It was the fear of living with their choices
The world sought its own refuge
But it was not bricks or stone fences
Instead it was a word that built the wall
And the glory of hearing their own voices

When can I go to the place that was promised?
From meal to meal I travel with a memory
I could say this is who I am but is that true?
All I know is that I could only feel pain inside
They said they were only being honest

I was so tired of being told how to be
It seems they cannot live with their own
I only wanted to talk about your blessings
They were so small I was ashamed of my own
I had forgotten that a breath is the life for me

There will be days
when it feels like the sun
is trying to burn you alive
There will be weeks
when it feels like the moon
is your only friend
And there will be months
when it feels like you live on
cigarettes and instant ramen
These are the bad times
We're still in the bad times
but I'm trying to get better
for you