Bejeweled, the peacock in her feathery glory,
Enchants each passerby to tell her story.
Her way with words, allures them all,
She gleams with pride; she stands tall.
A woodpecker, wears its crimson crown,
Its artistry turns down a frown.
Builds his home, upon a log,
Persists through rain or fog.
Peacock teaches the woodpecker its wicked game,
Gives the woodpecker a taste of fame.
Woodpecker works day and night,
Threatens the peacock, gives her a fright.
The woodpecker, praised for his newfound grace,
Notices the peacock, disdain on her face.
He asks her softly , the cause of her dismay,
Her voice cold and dead, begins to say.
“Your craft is weak, yet you think it’s great?
You still have time, it’s not to late.
If I see it again, it'll drive me mad,
Oh, honey! Its the truth, aren’t they all bad?”
Woodpecker stunned, as she keeps saying more,
Feels his crown fall on the floor.
With care for his pride,
He ponders and delves into a stride.
He says-
“Insecurity buried deep—that’s fine.
But why must you extinguish your friends’ shine.”
Speaking less but saying more,
He flies off to a better shore.
This poem is actually about me. I started writing because of my cousin, but over time, she started criticizing my work so much that it made me feel uncomfortable. Eventually, she just straight-up insulted me, which really got to me. It made me feel awful, so for my own peace of mind, I decided to stop talking to her.
