On blue moons,
between barstools
and broken beds -
I have moments
where my
beer-battered brain
opens the cage,
brave enough
to let my own bluebird
fly across a blank page.

My caged bird sings
in tweets of pain,
dragging
my life-sentenced
ball and chain
across
the telephone lined terrain
of purgatories page.

Painting the space
in hues of blue,
birthed by ballpointed dissection
of wing-clipped
captivity,
my bluebird bleeds out
those soft, tender
places within me,
mocking the freedom
I'll never know.