I've always been a bird,
Trapped in my little cage.
It's dark and cramped in here,
It feels as though I'm suffocating

I watch the free birds from
Behind my metal bars.

I dream of the day my capturers
Set me free.
The day I may spread my wings.
The day I may fly with the wild ones.

I have the power to break out,
But I'm afraid of the consequences.
All my life I've been told how to live.
To sit and be a nice bird.

I'm getting restless.
I'm getting peckish.

I want to break out,
I have the power.
But I'm so afraid that
My wings won't work anymore,
From the lack of experience.

I'm so afraid that the wild birds
Won't see me as their own.
I don't know how to fit in.
This, my capturers have not taught,
Only how to sit and be a nice bird.
Do what I'm told, what is expected of me.

Well I'm getting peckish.

I want to fly.

Our love was beautiful,

innocent and sweet. 

Like flower buds on a tree, seeing the sun for the first time.   

It grew into fresh fruit, refreshing everyone who encountered it.

Then autum came and our fruit dropped to the ground, taking the leaves with it. 

Although it was a sign of death, I still found it beautiful.

We were breath taking.

Our love flowed like rivers and streams hidden deep in the forest. 

Then the cold came, and she came. 

We lost our spark. You spent more time with her, and allowed her to burrow her way into our tree.

Slowly, she took our nutrition and ripped the roots out from under us.  

She froze the remains of us and eventually we died.

Then you grew a new tree with her, using our dead fruit and leaves as nutrients.

Now a new frost has spread and this new winter has killed your tree with her.

This cycle will remain until you have learned how to shelter your tree from the cold. 

But the saddest part is that our tree was not grown from the cold that killed the leaves in which your trees now grow.

Our love was sprouted from the sun, it was fresh and new, and innocent.

Poems aren't simple raps
About money or ***
Nor a contest
To see how many words you could rhyme
With time or chime or slime or crime
Like the crime I'd be committing
If I confined these words to such a small pool
Of what society deems poetry to be...

Poetry is a being
Born from freedom
Risen from the tides
Of emotions that ran so deep
It cut into a person's heart and soul...
So I guess I'm just trying to understand
When it became such a dreary concept
Taught in the confines of walls
As rigid and cold
As the useless rhyme scheme of words
Released into the world for a simple test
When in reality, poetry was meant to be sown with care
And grow into something beautiful...

The real beauty of poetry
Comes from the way
The letters dance and flow together
Into the head and to your heart
Binding us all together
Cherishing our differences
In the same rhythm it holds
The entire universe
With all its secrets
In the space between them