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Ada's got a scheme
a flying machine
constructing wings of
paper, oilsilk, wires, and feathers
faster than light
in all kinds of weather
Ada's going to fly

For Augusta Ada King, Countess of Lovelace (née Byron; 10 December 1815 – 27 November 1852), daughter of poet Lord Byron and renowned mathematician. She valued metaphysics as much as mathematics, viewing both as tools for exploring "the unseen worlds around us."
Nylee May 1
Why bind me to my own words
You are free from all the strings
I am not moving in years
But you've been flying ever since.
Kole J McNeil Apr 20
I was seven
I had run away
I climbed a tree high up in it's branches
Tall and reaching to the sky
I looked up and saw piece of heaven waiting for me
I reached for it. I leaped flying for one a blissful second
Then I was falling
Quiet as the wind on a summers night
I didn't wish to wake the world
I was falling blissfully in peace
I was seven but didn't wish to break the peaceful silence that I never got
It was just me
Flying in my mind
Reaching towards the safest place I had ever seen
But I hit earth and woke up in a place I didn't want to be again
I was back in my room
My parents had found me still reaching towards the sky
I haven't seen that place since then
I'm still waiting
Iv'e tried

Peace, falling, flying
this did happen though not as angelic as this tho ive tried to see that peace agin. Ive been broken too much.
Grey Apr 19
"Icarus," I breathe
through my dreams of flying free.
The naïveté of the youngling I desired to be
was a warning sign to all that watched his descent.
It was not his disobedience that led to this --
to his body buffeted in the merciless winds and swept up by the sea --
but being blinded by boundless beauty through his kaleidoscope vision.
What more could one wish for than the all-encompassing euphoria
of weaving through the sun-soaked clouds,
of learning the meaning of freedom as you reach up
to brush your fingers against the sun?
What more could one know than wanting something so desperately
that every shiny red sign is just one more bauble for your collection
as you struggle to escape the empty abyss engulfing you from within,
as you let the feeling of bliss envelope you for one heavenly moment,
as everyone screams in tinny voices that you should listen --
listen! --
but at least you got this one second,
this one heartbeat of a moment,
to finally let the chains fall from your bloodied wrists
and spread your newfound wings for all to see, for you to see,
for once, for nobody but yourself
before tumbling to the beat of gravity's forlorn yet never-ending song.
And maybe he regretted it
and maybe I will too
but as I press my palm against the echo of the sunlit expanse
reverberating in someone else's memory,
one word slips from my parted lips:
Inspired by the line "even Icarus got to fly" from Matthew Charles Shade's poem "Icarus."
Ceyhun Mahi Apr 12
How easy do those small birds fly,
Over the things which make us cry,
And feel like the greatest burdens,
In the depths and peaks of the sky.
written in 2016.
Francie Lynch Mar 31
I was told if I ate worms,
I could fly.
Ever since, I've stepped over sun-baked sidewalk worms.
I recall eating an orchard apple from the ground.
That didn't end well.
Rockwell suggested frying them.
Hamlet punned about worms travelling through a King.
Don't be called a worm.
Don't worm your way in,
You'll likely find a hook.
I'm forever grounded.
The worm hasn't turned.
Thomas Rockwell wrote How to Eat Fried Worms.
nmo Feb 23
i wonder
how we managed
to convince our hands
not to hold onto each other
when we said goodbye.

now, i'm writing
inside this flying can;
thinking this might be the closest
to a home.

these small seats,
with even smaller legs space.
these funny-shaped windows,
where all you can see are
white clouds,
and sporadically
some lights.
tiny houses,
with even tinier people.

and us,
tiny giants,
reading overpriced perfume catalogs,
listening to mispronounced english,
using disposable low-fidelity headphones,
inside low-light low-love low-cost
Shadow404 Feb 19
Heard the voice calling in his heart
Grew his wings
Beyond the horizon he flies

There's no map of the skies
Nobody heard his cries
Lost forever in the mist
Of his mind

His way back he couldn't find
So he moved on
Fading into the colors of sunset
Nothing left behind
Slime-God Jan 25
Shelter is a storm.
Flying high; my heart within.
Why must you float on?
Sorry for the re-upload, I accidentally yeeted this one
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