i think you want to be free
but you’re already a bird
who doesn’t have clipped wings
hidden behind metaphors
and waterfalls of words
a cage built from letters
ordered into insecurities
climb taller than a thousand trees
you know you can make it out
if you catch the right breeze
but the light is coming through like patchwork
spotty faults slip by sometimes
unaware that they could have just walked right in
your wall of ink is only so steady
and it seems like those gold-dipped hands
are too worthy of the consequences
of the pouring contents of your pen
but have you forgotten that your wings aren’t clipped?
my vision honed in on the sound of fear
and the reflection could have been pointed at me
for that is how mirrors laced with truth work
but who am i to tell my own story?
when birds like you,
who could have flown long ago,
are confined to cages
painted with their own feathers