I once wrote a poem About how the world ripped off my wings at birth And made it theirs How it always felt like I had to be Someone for somebody Anyone but me, and not to care
But that's not right
Cause I was never a bird Flying is a mere illusion And I'm gladly standing on the ground With everything and everybody And though it may not be as pretty Reality is still reality
They may have taken my wings But I can still run They may have taken my wings But I can still climb the highest peak They may have taken my wings But I can still feel the gush of wind flowing through allΒ the windows As I fall, and I cry, and I stand up once again And I wouldn't trade this for anything else Not even the skies
I can hear the birds calling me outside But I've finally found one more reason to stay Inside
I may not be a bird, but I'm me, and that's good enough.