It might be said:
My thoughts relentlessly glide,
Ever so freely,
With apathetic, liberal pride,
Which I could never ideally
Express in my common,
I pondered upon my inability to expressively-express,
To inevitably manifest
My tunes within the populous world.
As chirping birds whistle within the gentle wind
Of a pocketed, clustered nestling,
Guiding their unravelling tunes
To their loved ones.
I pondered upon my proficiency,
My renown, relative intricacy
To speak through the ink of a hole within a pen.
The miniature loop of tragedies,
Romantically- led fantasies,
Before I simply had time to count to ten.
The pen of life,
One which glides
Throughout all walks of life
I’ve simply travelled.
Extends my thoughts
Which could never bring themselves
To walk… unravel.
To mend the journeys which met only the eye.
Journeys like years,
Lessons as tears
Which silently withered within the softened sockets of a warm, swollen eye…
Consumed by the joys of silent expression,
Better told than their primary processions,
Of loopy, treacherous tragedies,
Romantic, fantastic fantasies,
I have finally realised.
The journey of a lifetime
Is merely dependent upon my
I am a chirping bird,
Guiding my tunes to my loved ones,
No longer nestling amongst the hysterical herd.
For I know,
I am finally walking,
And my pen silently glides within the wind
Far behind me.
I love the subtle chirping of birds.