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you can feel it right the wind
the breeze that blows
the breeze that give flight
this breeze of freedom
it gives my spirit freedom and hope  
but I’m stuck I can’t fly
I’m grounded clipped at the wings
I just wish to fly but these shackles that keep my spirit bound here
But for now, I will just wait here and believe that one day
I will find the key
And take flight and be that spirit I see o so free
I've been weighted down by my thoughts lately so i decided to give myself the freedom to just let it out
Stephen E Yocum May 2018
I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Over eight years a family friend,
his daily antics always on display,
morning and afternoon walks and talks,
his joyful baths in his small pond while
he playfully bobbed and dove beneath
the spray of my garden hose.

This was no human being,
a handsome Mallard Duck instead.
The self proclaimed King
of our barnyard clan,
always strolling and patrolling the
grounds, waiting for us, quacking
his greetings, excitingly flapping
his flightless wings at our approach.

His loneliness petticoat showing, he
followed everywhere, seemed to live
merely to be in our company, eat corn
from our hands, living precious minutes
of needed shared congeniality.

Two morning ago he was not there,
we searched and called his name
but he had completely disappeared.

A coyote perhaps, or bird of prey
our King taken and gone away.
Our lives are diminished by his loss,
Though only a bird, he was our
dear companion, a convivial friend.

I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Today I mourn his loss.
A tribute to a noble foul, if ever there was
one. Friends come in many forms and hues,
if one cares to see and embrace them for
who and what they are.
Yama Day Tinta Aug 2014
The radio alarm is a bit too strong
for his afternoon hangover taste.
He goes downstairs, sets the coffee to brewing,
rubs his hands through the hair on his face.
As he sits and he smokes, he can't quite think of the joke
she once told him about wooden eyes.

The coffee is ready, his hands are unsteady
as he pours his first cup of cure.
He tries to be happy he woke up today,
but whether being awake's good, he's not sure.
Outside it's raining, but he's gallantly straining
to keep his head and his spirits held high.

As soft as the flower bending out in its shower,
fiercer than hornets defending their hives,
the memories of sharing her secrets and sheets
run him through like sharp rusty knives.
He decides that his cup isn't quite strong enough,
takes the ***** from the shelf, gives a sigh.

He goes to the porch to put words to the torch
he still carries and knows whiskey just fuels.
Thunder puts a voice to his hammering heart.
Through ink, his knotted mind unspools,
writing of butterflies and of how his love lies
cocooned under unreachable skies.

From teardrops to streams to winter moonbeams
to a peach, firm and sweet, in the spring,
he writes of pilgrims and language and soft dew-damp grass
and how he sees her in everything.
He rambles and grieves, and he just can't believe
how much he has bottled inside.

He writes how the leaves, when they whisper in the breeze,
bring to mind her warm breath in his mouth,
how when walking through woods he loves the birdsong
when they fly back in the summer from the south
because she would sing too and he always knew
he wanted that sound in his ears when he died.

He writes even the streetlights, fluorescent and bright,
make him miss the diamond chips in her eyes,
how the fountain in the park plays watersongs in the dark
when he goes to make wishes on pennies
and while he's there he gets hoping
there will be some spare wishes
but so far there haven't been any.

He writes that the cold makes him think of the old
hotel where they spent most of a week,
lazing and gazing quite lovingly,
and how he brushed an eyelash off her cheek.
The crickets and frogs and all of the dogs
sound as mournful as he feels each night.

He writes about chocolate and fun in arcades,
he writes about stairwells and butchers' blades,
and closed-casket funerals, and Christmas parades,
then sad flightless birds and tiny brigades
of ants taking crumbs from the toast he had made,
and political goons with their soulless tirades,
old-timey duels and terrible grades,
strangers on  buses, harp music, maids,
the weird afterimages when all the light fades,
the pleasure of dinnertime serenades,
sidewalk chalk, wine, and hand grenades.

He writes of how much fun it would be to fly,
and saltwater taffy and ferryboat rides,

sitting on couches, scratched CD's
pets gone too soon and overdraft fees,

the beach, the lake, the mountains, the fog,
David Bowie's funny, ill-smelling bog,

jewelry, perfume, sushi, and swans,
the smell of the pavement when the rain's come and gone,

and shots and opera, and Oprah and ***,
and tiny bikinis with yellow dots,

stained glass lamps, and gum and stamps,
her dancing shoes on wheelchair ramps,
that overstrange feeling of déjà vu,
filet mignon and cordon bleu,

bad haircuts at county fairs,
honey and clover, stockmarket shares,
the comfort of nestling in overstuffed chairs,
and her poking fun at the clothes that he wears,
and giraffes and hippos and polar bears,
cumbersome car consoles, monsters' lairs,
singing in public and ignoring the stares,
botching it badly while making éclairs,
misspelled tattoos, socks not in pairs,
people who take something that isn't theirs,
the future of man, and man's future cares,

why people so frequently lie
and bury themselves so deep in the mire
of monetary profits when money won't buy
a single next second because time's not for hire,
and that he sees her in everything.

Then unexpectedly, unbidden from where it was hidden
comes the punchline to the joke she had told him.
He laughs -- it's too much and his heart finally tears
as a blackness rolls in to enfold him.
The last thing he hears is birdsong in his ears --
the sound brings hope and is sweet as he dies.
Zero, I am my own unhelpful Hero.

Illustrious A Lion-fish, a flightless Swift.

Leaps, longing to swim or fly deep skies

Chastising shadows in box rooms, bird’s cage

Having nothing leads to hating everything.
"Omni, Do tell"
A sunless sun...
a cloudless cloud
are the same in one?
Dear Omni, without your help I fear that
I'm done!
Do tell or I wished I'd never met you from day one! ~Venjencie

Ven, venae toward the heart
How can I end what you have start?
Light and dark
each spinning round
Dear Ven, this, only once around
It starts
If you really knew me,
you wouldn't want to know me
at all.~Omni

Dear Omni, because I ink ****** words as a broken poet, We're blood from the same neck of the woods. Is a wingless bird free? If you end it then that's what I will be... a wingless bird that can never fly free. VenJencie

Omni  Oct 6
If the woods be too high, climb down then fly. A flightless bird knows no envy. It too knows it is free. I, Omni do tell, only because I've seen it as well. Dear Venjencie, even the woods be broken, but still they grow.
-Omni

My dearest Omni, maybe you're my harmony,
So do tell something I need to know,
Will you disappear after I whisper my sin into your ear;
(whispering), I'm not devious but I'm very much envious,
For my beauty can never compare to the beautiful colored wings of others,
I fear the woods will cease to grow,
Then my very life will cease
...being wingless you know,
If the woods burn down,
Would you try to rescue me after I made my sin
of jealousy known? ~SacredInkedblood
©2018 Venjencie Arnold

Omni  5m
Only in flight, are we less, but no lesser than any until it is of the mind. I tell you, you soar! Your words take flight and maybe, just maybe, your words save me. Wings need no envy nor want of shame. They take flight in the heart and sail in the expanse of the brain. There are no borders for envy and jealousy for they will always be, and so too we. Your wings mightily open and quench the fires of the forest with a single and simple flutter. There is no need for rescue. Your sin, be it as mine own, is safe with me.
-Omni ©2018

"Omni, do tell"
2018©
Rights credited to Omni and Venjencie Arnold
#Omni please do collaborate so that we can put together this one. Then we can each re-edit as one. Your credit will remain your copyright credit and for me and mine the same. I'm anxiously waiting for your reply in collaboration. Thanks, dear friend and writer. -Jencie
P.S. I'm still glad that I met you. That was added for drama.
This Experience
An imperfect reflection
Garden of pavements

Broken purposeless
Flightless birds will all look up
Feeling more of sky

Yearning phantom limbs
That Substance of unfeeling
Holes want to be filled.

The freedoms championed
By the long gone days of Old
Had good intentions

Experience still
Makes business of great divides
Caters to the Wolf

We’re the hand which feeds
Mouths eating away the world.
We get what we give.
Sadoka
Louche tang of the berthafly ink on your nape
has me flushed glutton for its underclass umami.
'Cross a Newkie Brown kristallnacht-scape,
you: hither, blacken ballet pumps from Primani.

No rugbytackle on a hungry subtle jackal,
but it's risky (tho', tbf, not that risky)
to smuggle rumpled, prisonrolled rosepetals
int'a Dean Rhetoric afterworld for Daddy.

Whilst lukewarm ****'s a phoenix's acronyx,
asbestos gelos defervesces not, my frisky
alderliefest ticklish like Chi-nickel crucifix.
Life's too brisk: fake a risk (in itself quite risky).

A poet's the kinda herbert in Herbert Pocket's pocket,
who thinks risque lagniappe from Aganippe
is lock of autumnal pubarche from Humbert Humbert's locket,
in sink where gooseberries were electrolysised lately.

Flightless bard 'mid diorama of nephograms
(steppensheep nebula, staffage in matteshot sky),
*****, erm, Withwords, who broadsides how wrong I am:
'Heart's excrescences risk poesy's arty chokey'.

In rejectionslip braille hail, papercut rain
of masterpiece confetti do we live dangerously,
in mastertape conshreddi of 99 bandnames.
But headliner suicides win poetry lottery.

Shelley stunt of dying strangely, strangely young
cures a vocabullinachinashoplairy,
becomes Voynich manuscrap of Symbolist shantung.
Full circle: silk wormfood determines vellumworthy.

Vicious circle: rosa rosa razor est est.
Vicious Coriolis: life plugholing w/ the hoary
sullage, balneal bisnatchizzle, a stringvest-
al Virgil's dregs refresh t'highwater Dante.

For what BBQpid matchmakes man w/ Beatrice,
Stonkahontas tormeting an odd 'n' furry
berk, poet whose amrita is thridace
strain of th'infidelity toxin, Beauty.

Which is how the risky Manic defined the
entartete source of fishy fiances,
la beaute du diable. But hybristophilia
to scorpions of Venus, to Hell on a tray,

is flipbride of poet wailing to be her DWEM lover,
a foxynoxynihilipilification proxy
for transfiguration by association w/ bete noir
of Beauty: beta noir bards are Death's humerus candy.
bisnatchizzle = a *****'s ***** hair
Yenson Aug 2018
Lost in the majority
hiding within the masses
seeking acceptance
afraid to be yourself

The bullies' 'democracy' claims another victim
the chains are for you
not your so-called prisoner
Not the one who dared call it as it is
Not the one unafraid to stick his head above the fence

What is a person if not their truths
Be it right or wrong, better die than a ******* sheep
The Dodo was wiped out because they were flightless
Couldn't escape the clutches of human
Was it their fault
Or the God who made them without wings
and also created man in charge of earth

Man is the highest being
who professes to know more than God
Do what they want and take what they like
We can, so we do
We'll just make it up as we go along
Its unlawful to **** but our Police can **** the Darkies
You do jail time for stealing a loaf
At the top they are stealing millions slashed in Offshore Accounts

Then some flatulences of deranged ******* ranges along
declaring we are Red Devils against the Privileged
See that man go make his life a misery
Don't befriend him, don't even talk to him
Come join our club cause we are the majority

The flatulence of ******* have just stolen your Free-Will
Pitting you against another who has done you no wrong
But it's alright because everyone is in with it
No it's not OK because they have just made you a slave
Played on your fears and made you feel inferior
Judged on your behalf without your consent
And manipulate you without your approval
Because they have fooled you
Made you think you're only strong in a pack
While tainting your mind with Hate
And stealing your free Will

Welcome to Cowardsville, Have a nice stay
Cause you're staying your lifetime
Real Democracy is seeking Common good for all by all
Not common destruction of another blameless Human
as sport to hang asinine trite banners on, to **** your mind in
That is not Power, its a scam by Cheats, thugs and hooligans
who also want a slice of the Top table pies and cherries,
without learning the rules of the game
What these shites call Power is hate and Bullying
And bullying is Wrong and cowardly
It could be YOU someday

You may not have much but at least own yourself
And own your mind
Make your own decision
Don't do because someone stole your free Will
Least of all a Flatulences of Red *******
Who banish Freedom while yelling Freedom For All
Who lies we are fighting for the common people
While their union Leaders earn same as the ******* PM
and live Rent free in mansions with fortunes in Banks

Is Putin equal to all the others he rules over
Is Trump giving up his Billions to make America great
Has Corbyn given a spare room to a Palestinian refugee
or donated half of his wages to the poor
Do you honestly believe Politicians tell you the TRUTH
Whether Red, Blue, Orange, Gold or ******* Rainbow

Then some Shyster Flatulences of Red Nincompoops steals
your Free will and sends you like dogs to go harass
and torment one single Man and calls it Revolution...hahaha

Go have a coffee and smell the Roses....people!
Jeremy Corbyn publishes tax return, revealing total income of £114,342
Madison Aug 2018
He fell from heavens high

Back down to this miserable Earth

All in the interest of loving me.

He was a guardian

So pure of soul

But all I saw

Were his wings.

He promised to protect me

And kept his word

Treating me better than anyone had

In a very long time.

He lived a second time just for me

Always there to rescue his favorite broken soul.

He was the one

To drag me out of dark alleys

Take the bottle from my hands

Tell me who not to call back

Place a hand on my heart

Just when I thought I couldn't feel anything good anymore.

He danced with me to my favorite records

Taught me how to laugh again

Sang me to sleep

Offered the gentlest kiss

Without asking for anything more.

He pried me open

To see into my soul.

I found true desire

In staring at his wings.

As the days passed

Disenchantment crept back in.

Finally, I asked him

What it was like to fly.

He smiled at me

So beautifully otherworldly

And told me that

As long as I was there with him

He wouldn't dream of doing it again.

It was then that I asked him the million dollar question:

"If you don't want to fly again

Would you mind giving just one of your feathers to me?"

He stayed silent for a while

Considering

Before he reached out

And tore a single sparkling plume

From one lovely white wing.

He dropped it into my outstretched palm

Before meeting my gaze

With watering eyes.

"My love," he said.

"Never doubt that I am yours."

For a while

That one feather was all that I needed.

Alas, like all things

The passing of days

Dulled its shine.

A few nights later

I asked my angel for another

Sure he wouldn't mind.

"Please," I begged.

"Just one more."

He hesitated for only a moment

Before plucking out another.

With a smile

I took it from him

To join the previous one.

There was a sick thrill

In seeing them side-by-side

One for him

One for me.

Of course

Two wasn't good enough for long.

I plead to him on one of my hopeless nights

Dropping to my knees

Choking on tears.

"Please," I said once more.

"If you really love me, do this for me. Give me more of you."

His own eyes glistening

He ripped out a handful of glittering ivory

Shoving them into my hands.

I barely even heard his groan of agony

Over my own cries of anguish.

As my collection of feathers grew

Along with my longing for more

I hardly noticed my angel grow gaunt

Glowing skin going dull gray

Radiant smile fading away

Retreating into himself

As I stripped him

Of the badge that stated his purpose.

He gave and gave

And I took and took

Never offering anything back

Never worrying

Figuring that this --

Making me happy --

Was his job.

Not once did it occur to me

That every small sacrifice caused him so much pain

That I had changed him from a guardian angel

To a caged, flightless bird.

So I never pressed him.

Besides

How do you ask someone

If they're tearing themselves apart

To give you a piece of them?

I didn't expect it

When my angel fell into my arms

The light already leaving his beautiful eyes.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"But I have to go now.

Please take care of yourself when I'm gone.

And, when you look at the feathers

Think of me."

The least I could do

Was hold him

As he faded away.

Now, I walk this miserable world alone

Two angel feathers

Hanging from my neck.

I stay away from dark alleys

Seek solace in the bottle

Screen every call

Clutch a hand to my chest

Wishing my heart would freeze back over.

I've put away the records I once loved

Muted my laugh

Let every tear dry on its own

Stay up all night

Blaming myself

Vowing to never let anyone kiss these selfish lips again.

Now, I fall to my knees

Pleading with the heavens

To let him come back to me

Save me again

Reclaim the things I took from him.

Oh, angel

Please don't do this for your next girl.
Alexander Sep 2018
You are a birdcage and I,
a flightless dove
I thought you knew what was best for me
I guess I was wrong.
Max Mar 23
The bottle has a lot of words
Like a flock of flightless birds.

It tells me not to exceed two
Just like my friends telling me not to exceed heartbreaks from you.

You tell me to take eleven
So that I wont go to heaven.

But I ended up taking thirteen
So that my vision turned green.

I started getting dizzy
And the world was going fizzy.

Which way was up, and which way was down?
My vision started turning brown.

My stomach started to ache
My mind started to break.

The tears kept falling
And i kept bawling.

The ground was so cold as I laid there waiting for oblivion
I felt like I was done.

I couldn't handle the colours no more
so I shut the door.

I laid on my bed looking at the clock
And glanced at the door lock.

I shut my eyes calmly
As my arms rested near me.

The clock struck one
And I was done.
Theres probably a lot of spelling errors
Woops
Brando Jan 20
I was forced to leave the place I called my sanctuary
The place in which you constantly reminded me I should feel safe
Filled with positive memories
Happiness and no judgment
But we have two different definitions of safe
To you, because you are my mentor, you have this overruling authority
You will punish both the right and the wrong
There is no use in biting the hand that feeds you
So, unconsciously, your wish is my command
You didn’t even realize I was gone
Until I was
I ran away from you as fast as I could
Expecting an unruly army of beasts to follow behind
I waited
Stopped at the red light
No one came after me
There was no army
Not even a gust of wind
Shame was the only one to follow me into the dark
Freedom, no more orders or demands
The unreality of this moment sank in
All I wanted was to be back in the safety of my own arms
However, I no longer had a safe place to rest
A flightless bird trapped in a nest of lies
Unable to escape
I ran into the night, no direction of where I was headed
Alone, but free
my parents kicked me out of my house once and things have never been the same. now as a college student returning home I feel like a guest in my own house.

— The End —