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Bustillos 11h
Wounded bird,
broken wings,
I cannot,
I no longer know
how to rise.
A shattered dream.

Poor bird,
flightless,
a failure.
Dreams
in a nosedive,
into harsh reality.
Shattered,
crashed
plumage.

All broken,
I dreamed of flight,
and couldn't.
My body
is heavy.
I plunged,
I fell from grace;
I no longer know how to fly.

So much dreaming,
only to land
unwillingly.
And my dreams
have flown away.
I moved my hands,
and saw reality:
I was no angel.

I was no longer a child,
and everything hurt.
I wanted to be better,
but I'm not;
I corrupted myself.
And I was just me,
a poor soul
who flapped
in my dreams,
a loser
in my life,
only disaster.

Consumed
beyond remedy,
I reached the end,
landed on earth,
dreams undone.
Neither angel, nor good,
nor child, just an old man
who never learned to fly.
Hope took flight.

Carlos Alberto Bustillos López
Copyleft
I'm coming back as a tree
I could leave now
For all I care

The tree is an Ash
Sturdily bends in
In the sharpest winter

Breezes blows the boughs
The waves from the Pacific Ocean
Are jealous of her cadence

I'll take my leave now
I've seen all I need to
When you hear the wind look up

I've returned
Rooted, alive, without a care
Let the cages of birds freely fly to me.
early to rise and observe          
trip over the cat
first to witness that things        
need not be so absurd
and inglorious and murdered  

resemble breath                          
prescribed life    reassemble
22/06/25 - original notes
Let the flames arise
Miraculous phoenix wings
Burn to where you are
Scorching through the sky of dusk
To the eyes I dream of still.

This is no mere song—
It is spell and incantation,
From a time before
The gods knew their sacred names,
Etched on scrolls of drifting fire.

I cry through the book,
Shouting “I love you” aloud,
My voice looping back,
Carried by mythic echoes
That soar through the centuries.

The wings still shimmer—
Ash to ember, flame to spark—
A fire rekindled
By the longing in your gaze,
A world reformed by your light.

I look through the veil,
This plane between dreams and stars,
Where time bends and folds
Just to cradle our story
On the lips of fate’s own breath.

The elements stir—
Stone, and wave, and thundercloud—
Dancing in your smile,
Each heartbeat awakening
The phoenix’s sacred flight.

This love is not dust—
It is constellation-born,
A map inked in flame
That the heavens dare not touch,
Lest they lose their way to you.

I give all I have,
Even my stars and spirit,
To the one I love—
And if more is ever asked,
I shall give that offering too.

There is no summit,
No horizon too distant,
No fear, no shadow—
For our love is miracle,
The divine thread through all things.

Crossing earth and sky,
I would sail through void and wind,
To paint your laughter
Onto the face of the moon,
Where the gods kneel to your soul.

I believe in us—
In what lies beyond the dark,
In the secret path
That opens when two hands meet,
Even if they cross through storms.

For I saw your eyes—
Two blazing universes
That refused to die,
And I knew that every world
Was born to witness our love.

Let the world collapse—
I will keep your name burning
In each falling star,
Whispering our memory
Into every wind that flies.

This is our true myth—
Where no tragedy may win,
Where love always speaks,
Even when lips are silenced,
Even when stars fall from skies.

Yong, this sacred chant
Rises like prayer and flame,
Song and memory
Looping like enchanted loops
In a theater of stars.

Believe, my beloved—
This poem is still being sung.
No matter how far
You are the spell I repeat,
The salvation I still sing.


The lands shall now bloom—
From frost, the blossoms awaken,
Petals soft as vows,
Spilling from the mountainside
Like a promise kept in pink.

The winds will now sing,
Not of sorrow, but of spring—
A song laced with you,
In every hush of the grass,
In the hush between heartbeats.

Let this be our truth:
Love is our salvation still.
No matter the dark,
Spring returns to all who wait,
And I wait with wings for you.
Follow my channel Jessprosia for more poems, fairytales, and webnovels—crafted with heart, for hearts like yours.
Lily Daisy Jun 13
Once upon a time
there were these two beautiful creatures
A Fish and A Bird.
They met where the water meets the sky
The Horizon!
He waited at the surface
And she circled above.
They reached and touched
but
she couldn’t hold water
and he couldn’t breathe air
So they dreamed..
Dreamed of living in the middle ..
Middle of the sky and ocean
But little did they know
there is no middle between
the sky and the sea ..
so they said goodbye
without saying it and
kept loving from afar, from a distance!
Mitra Jun 13
Graceful sway of her long, elegant fingers,
The hypnotic smile of her sweet face lingers.
Her favorite songs are burned into my brain—
An addiction so strong, it drives me insane.
“That’s not very poetic,” the bird laughs.
“Truths are more often than not chaotic,” I say.

Then the bird takes a leap, and up she goes.
I chase after her, for she has given me hope.
I realize that it’s selfish, that it’s scary,
But it’s also just part of being human.

She’s an artist stuck in a spiral of despair,
The fallen angel sleeps in her lonely hair.
I pray to God, “Please let me be there.”
Even if for a fleeting moment,
Let me be what her bleeding soul requires.

The morning sun takes away my breath;
The freezing cold brings it back.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” the bird flies past me.
“If that’s what it takes to make you laugh again.”

I took refuge in her voice; the warmth kept me safe.
“A step towards nirvana,” I said.
“You don’t sound very convincing,” the bird chuckled.
I’d let you have my heart if that’s what it takes to prove my words.

The sun went down, and the moon hid herself,
But I kept chasing after the unknown bird,
Hoping to get another glimpse, to add her presence to my dreams,
Hoping someday she’ll hold me tight and never let go.
Piyush Jun 4
A blue-feathered bird,
Sitting on my shelf,
Tells me a story
Not found in itself.

Of a poet and dead,
Of words that he said.
The poet was poor,
Only had words to pour.
The dead was once alive,
She was the king’s only tribe.

They met in shade,
No eyes, no blade.
He spoke in rhyme,
She gave him time.
No crown, no gold—
Just hands to hold.

The king knew
The poet’s affection—
For him, his daughter
Was no mere connection.
He ordered,
“Don’t ****, don’t spill the blood,
Write some words from the mud.
Hang him in the night,
When the moon will rise—
The poet’s will should die.”

She cried,
Yet they beat him
Till the night.

The story, never whole,
Remains told
By the blue-feathered bird.
The bird still sings, its voice not done,
Read the rest — there’s more than one.
Heidi Franke Jun 2
I looked up
This morning
Before
the globe
Of life lifted from
The dark horizon

The passengers
In the sky
Began to announce
Their arrival
With frosting
Dressing the gray floaters
Tipping a hat to the mistress sun

As do the yellow roses
That glow in the darkest
Of green along the
Fence. Next to me.
Waking up.

One only knows
The presence of the days beginning
By these clouds
These flowers
And the black capped chickadee
Announcing all clear
See-see dearee
All threats are gone.
neth jones May 30
blind and naked starling chick
dead on the pavement

parent looks down and sings

out of context
i'd think it a sweet bird song

is my reading
of the situation incorrect ?
21/05/25
Al Quqoniy May 27
From the desert,
                             which is far away,
Came little bird,
                            seeking for place to stay.
When he was crossing,
                                        unknown garden
The Irish daisy’s
                              occurrence sudden
Made him forget how
                                      To fly and breathe.
And made him fall,
                                  on thorns beneath.
Abruptly standing
                                 Up, he began his song.
Here is, enjoy!
                         Won’t make you wait long:

“Without you a moment
Is like a century for me!
Your short absence is such a torment
Made me question: to be or not to be?
The land where you are
Is like an entrance of cemetery.
But land with no thee,
Is graveyard saying:  not to be!
I want to own selfishly,
Your snowy petal’s tenderness,
And to declare jealously,
A war,
To those who are
Drunk with your scents!
Recall,
A moment is the century
On your absence!”

This is the end of song,
                                        But yet
This Irish daisy is
                               Making my bird upset.
We seek just happiness
                                         In an unhappy world,
Which has confessors
                                      With unresponded song!
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