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Are my eyes not sewn
To the vestagise's of
                                You.

Your words like songbirds
In mornings glory,
                     singing the awakening

                                           of ourselves..

We fly higher in dawns rising,
         and slumber in a nest of
                                            two,
                            when dusk falls beneath
                                                    our hearts.

Two feathers always gliding
            on the rhyme of loves wind.
And we soar for eternity
          as we are the breath beneath
                       each others yearnings.
Pyrrha Jan 31
He didn't know the love she had
Buried beneath her skin
Held behind the bars of her rib cage
Her heart was there, burning with desire
Beating within was the song of love sung by a lark

Alas, he couldn't hear it
From the surface he only saw an expressionless doll
He never listened to her when she tried to sing to him
That deafening sound that refused to please him

So instead of being left with a song
Destined to drive her to madness
She released the lark within

But that boy couldn't let her go
Tortured by the thoughts of her
Haunted by the memory of her
He defiled their trust

She could no longer stay silent as she planned
So she opened her mouth and told him
He was not a man
She hurt his pride and didn't mind

Her lark returned
But that pretty bird was consumed by rage
Her heart now burned with a different flame
this typewriter is my bird’s nest
and my fingers, like bird beaks
pecking away at the keys for
supplementary nourishment
and what appears on paper
is just pure regurgitation,
being retched into
the mouths
the ears
and the minds
of the reader.

I wanted my literature to
spread its wingspan and
fanned its radiant feathers.
so I can kick it out of the nest
and let it fly free with the other
nightingales and take my
sorrow away along with it

for I’m the Mother Songbird
and I’ve escaped the fires
of the world that have burned
the nest of my younglings
and left my with the grief
I can not bare and to fly
alone

these words,
these words that burden
my damnation

and yet, I continue to sing
and sing and sing and sing.
Aurelia Ward Oct 2018
The beautiful songbird croaks
It's voice hoarse and rusty
Not from lack of use
But from lack of hearts to sway
The songbird croaks anyway

The beautiful songbird croaks
I tire of listening,
And reach for its throat...
It's pretty eyes twinkle up at me
The songbird croaks continually

The beautiful songbird croaks
It's kept in a cage,
hasn't tried to escape
I watch it without listening;
Only then does the songbird sing

Pressing cold beak
To fishes gills,
My heart beats through
The fins and frills,
The world askew,
The siren stills

The beautiful songbird dines
Carnivorous feathers
Peck at scales and skin
The beauty forever enjoying the taste
The songbirds song, misplaced

The beautiful songbird croaks
I won't hear again,
The soft wheezing cry
One last time embraced by him
The songbird croaks goodbye
For Aaron
David Acker Jr May 2018
I love it when she sing to me.
Making my blood pressure rise
Heart pounding
Her lyrics pounding on my ear drums.
Pheromones being released
By her voice.
Euphoria begins to settle in
While I enticingly
Yearn for more.
Harmony being played
By her vocal cords,
So gracefully
Pulling on my heart strings
As I beg and plead
For this moment
To never end.

Her Moans
Red-haired artificially
with shiny teeth,
clean knees
with a gap in between.

and my voice will carry
like a songbird in the morning.
Beautifully composed
uttering a peaceful warning

My linens
So pink...
no blue stains to be seen.

And the skin I wear
Porcelain.
airbrushed and screaming
a lulled importance

With my night creams
and appointments
lessons and ointments

I will become the most perfect woman-made sculpture America has ever seen.
Bardo Apr 2018
The tune you played it ran so sweetly
I was sure Time himself had stopped
    dead in his tracks to greet me
And let believe all the while my soul
    had been enslaved
Such was the relief to my heart that it
    gave;
Holier than the sight of monasteries
    crouched in secluded valleys
Sweeter than the song of the bird in
    the green Summer's tree
So sweet was it that it opened a
    thousand as yet unsavoured dreams
And had my mind rest easy on the
    cool wind
Which swept over their prosperous
    seas.

                              II

The tune you played brought calm
    upon a boisterous evening
Though Sorrow came to me
When I saw you finish and leave the
    centre stage
For I had thought I might live forever
    under your enchanting spell
Far from the world in peace and
    harmony
With Love kept, not left weeping
Far from the wakening hour
From that chore of modern empty
    living;
It was by far the sweetest tune
It released this fellow songbird from
    his cage
And it all seemed like glorious Heaven
    these brief moments spent
For he who had longed always to be
    free.

                                Translated from the
                                original Latin of
                                Emperor Nero circa
                                40 AD (his later
                                period).
Used to read old Irish poetry Thomas Moore, James Clarence Mangan. This was a kind of homage. The Nero bit was a joke.
Jessica Jarvis Feb 2018
Upon the dark night, striking three;
A tick representing each step in time,
but time overwhelmed by a trinity
of peace, and a plan greater than one's wildest dreams.

As the trees clap their praises unto a summer wind, and
waves flood the skies with their roaring rumbles of exaltation,
a bird sings unto the dark night her song, unique, sweet, and free-spirited

Another beauty upon the night, a tulip,
blossoming, not fully grown, in admiration of this free spirit, the bird.
The tulip observes from a distance the song the bird sings

A praise, a never ending thankfulness
"Thank You for the trees,
Thank You for the waves,
And thank You for me," the bird sings.

In awe of the song bird, the tulip longs to grow, to blossom, to fly, to sing;
Oh, the joy, the praise, the song she'll bring
when fully grown to exemplify her thanks to the three

But, Hold! The clock ticking three, a breath He takes.
The songs of beauty the bird once sang
are silenced more than a whisper

Oh, dear, wilting Tulip; she wonders,
"Why?" she misunderstands, "Why has the bird's song been hushed?"
Oh, so joyful with praise, the songs she sang,
but now unto another Audience, unheard by the flower;

However, the sun rises, the flower realizes,
A new day is upon her. The trees clap their praises unto a summer wind, and
Waves flood the skies with their roaring rumbles of exaltation,
Just like any other day.

Partaking in full bloom overnight, grown, she hears the call of three:
You're unique, sweet, and your free-spirit will sing,
for the steps of time past quicker than the steady rhythm of that clock ticking

Fly free, song bird,
Your legacy will only grow sweeter with time
As the bloom of a tulip smiles and praises the One unto which your song once thrived.
Written sometime around January, 2017.

This was written out of pain: legitimate heartbreak, but I suppose most poetry is, right? This was my first "real" poem that I've ever written. This began as an assignment and became a coping mechanism with a serious loss. I did, however, learn an important lesson: loss can be beautiful... I was very particular and purposeful with this poem, so there is a lot of symbolism. Interpret it as you please.
A special moment
Is like a songbird
That comes your way, just once.
So capture that moment
Never let it fly away
It may never come back again.
rinnette Apr 2017
He hummed the tune under his breath
Tapping to the rhythm
And the lyrics seeped out his lips
As strings were strummed

The words hit
Like lightning on a sunny day
Straight into my heart
And I made a silent wish

I wanted him to sing it to me
Looking into my eyes
Holding my hand
Like he mean it

I want to be...
... his little songbird



Just like how
He had became mine...
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