A fickle finch's heart
always flitting from limb to limb,
its gaze always fleeting.
But colors worn so proud,
gold in the green and blue in the briar,
so like a fool I try to fly.

Heart attack,
Lungs collapse,
Stomach sinks,
Forget to think.

Who are you,
What to do,
Try to run,
Legs are numb.

Never holding on,
Getting pulled along,
Wishing it was you,
Something strange and new.

But with so much certainty,
A little doubt there will not be,
I say it's a lie and yet I see,
The weights and the burden, the irony,

It's me, but breathe.

One, two, three.

I find comfort in reveries
written by men who barely breathe,
or by women who find power in paper
cast out because they lack political favor.

Stories by the wealthy and bored
fortunate but ****** enough to find life a chore,
the pensive folk who peer and pry
**** our thoughts into newfound high.

We guess that they have measured motive
to gorge on fame until they're bloated,
or make their mark on mortal minds
in desperate ploys to outlast time.

Some riddled and ruined by reality
who write to quell not critics but poverty,
knowing that genius might swim in scribbles
that earn a few pennies little by little.

All cut from the same curious cloth
willing to lay naked every thought,
for everyone and no one to see and savor
but for at least a single soul to find some flavor.

God forget the queen and save these paupers
the indifferent financiers of mind's coffers,
the absent yet ever-present teachers
the ones who give new breath to life's creatures.

And every ****** or rosy rhyme
owes its rhythm to well-spent time,
of imperfect souls and fearless fighters
the poets, the storytellers, the righteous writers.