i guess i got wings inked on my shoulders,
because i think i’m some walking talking
stumbling
paradox.
one day i’ll fly away,
but crash into buildings, scraping elbows among
shattered car windows and
street lamps waiting to
die.
i’m a **** growing among rusty brick buildings,
admired, but confused on which way to
grow.
i am the sock that has no match,
i do not fit, the one puzzle piece that cannot squeeze.
sticking out awkward, desperately clinging on.
no more questions, no more assumptions.
you laugh because i have wings,
i cry because all i see are
feathers.