They set fire to my country
And watched as it burned down
Forgetting that it was a phoenix
And the phoenix rises from its ash

I am weak
And wobble as I stand
Like a baby bird
A phoenix, perhaps
Rising from the ashes
With a bit too much smoke
Left in its lungs.

The old husk
That shell built over many days
Of spring and rocks,
Gentle grass and balmy river
When it forgot it’s name was phoenix
Has been torn off
Too soon, like a scab
And the new skin underneath
Is tender in its infant stage
Under thin and ashy feathers.

Yes, it lives
Yes, it is rising

But one cannot go
From flames to flight
In an instant.

Let it instead be overnight
And let you, sweet bird
Rest
In the meanwhile.

Maybe your love was meant to burn my heart and turn me into ashes,
So it can rise like a phoenix stronger than before.
Maybe I was meant to be tore apart like puzzle pieces
To become a master piece when I am whole again.
Maybe I was meant to be broken, to be happy again.

i used to have motivation
i used to believe in magic
but then i met someone
that killed her
they say "hope is the thing with feathers"
and feathers are attached to an animal
i think mine was a bird
a phoenix with fiery wings
bold and unwilling to change for some idiots ideas
but my phoenix was drowned
and it left me vacant
my hope has been submerged in water of my own making
so now i no longer believe in magic
nor do i have motivation
instead, i sit in silence
feigning happiness and light
for my phoenix's wings no longer shine bright
and so, in turn, i don't feel any more
instead, i make sure that feeling goes to others

You are a Phoenix.

You will burn,
and the world
will be dazzled by your flame.
You will rise again,
from the ashes,
stronger than before.

Am I a Phoenix?

I have burned
many times,
and I did rise
from the ashes,
but always less.

The last of my self-poisoning Burns away,
and as the cigarette shortens
so does the noose from which I swing

leaving a locked door for an open window
on the second storey floor
Im in a free-fall while smiling
because I don't care anymore.

So if I hit the ground half as hard
as the harmful thoughts in my head
I know I'd be better off dead

but instead

here I stand over a buried body
reading a eulogy for the memory
of the part of me I let die
before a newborn Phoenix learns to fly

The overture sounds a muffled thud,
       And scraping flesh against macadam.
Un-rosined bows screech across nerves,
                     Dividing molecules to atoms.
Each neuron fires off, splicing into three
The soul from the body,
          and something indescribably between.

Catching fire, he ascends -
            "This is what it truly means to be!"
Each piece, each side
Breaking away in-finitely
To somehow become more whole
Through division, and in balance.
                  Like a reunion, of holy trinity,
                       Caught ablaze in fissile symphony.

                   -  -  -

And like a cork popped from Prosecco,
Rewound, and played reversed,
       He careens with a whining pitch
       And
                 f
                    a
                  ­     l
                          l
                            s
   ­                           From orbit,
                                  Back to earth.

Glimpsing God
Only to be clawed back
To the pains and pleasures of Samsara,
        To taste the bitterness of my own blood,
        Transposed
        From the ecstasy of Nirvana.

This is how I came to know the realm,
     In which our feeble bodies lurch.
'Ere I was born as a phoenix
                       from the ashes.
      In the rear cabin of a hearse.