The sky, black as the eyes that stare at it.
Star-studded and as seamless as new programming.
I look down, the streets molested by fluorescent splotches --
red ribbons of memory evaporate from the lights of motorcycles,
gurgling by.

A homeless, pregnant woman, in a bar, once told me,
"Forgiveness is letting a prisoner free, then finding out that you were the prisoner."

The sunset looks like an explosion of emotions
no one understands, yet.

The smudges on her lips
look like the bruises of an orphan apple.

i hide away during the days
watching the other birds in flight
i don't know their tunes, they say
those songbirds are the social type

i guess the day was made for them
just like the night was made for me
i'll just wait here until the dusk
all alone, in my tree

i don't fit in with their flashy ways
my feathers just aren't as bright
they sing so pretty in sunlight rays
as i await my turn to cry at night