We all have a bird inside of us,
who sings from the first moments of life.
Some of our can sing operatically over the grandest orchestras,
with the flowing allure of a springtime dress.
Others can hardly chirp a simple melody,
over a silent wind.
And for those who can hardly chirp,
yet crave for that singing songbird to burst out their chest.
The persuasions of patterns on the golden road,
seem to entice them the most.
So you’ll down that last shot.
Inhale the most toxic fumes.
Fall to your knees and shout to the sky.
While covering your bird in tar and liquor.
You expect now for your bird to sing loud?
Gathering every eye and ear along the way.
But you’re still sitting in your room,
watching your suffering go to waste.
Another empty bottle.
Another burnt cigarette.
Staring at an empty mind,
yelling at your bird to sing once more.
But as it wheezes with every inhale,
and coughs with every exhale.
Simply withers away into ashes.
Opening another bottle.
Lighting another cigarette.
Will hurt the most.
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Comments about this poem (Songbird by Luis Escobar )
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