‘you think you want me
or so you say
but she is pretty
[or prettier is some sweet way]
she curls her hair everyday
it falls like a silent waterfall and sways
back and forth
as she plays the piano with her white like porcelain hands
and then my hands touch the keys
withered and warn from falling trees
and my hair is always a mess
and my face has never been kissed
worthy of it.
She is a pretty child
with a pretty smile
and I am a bird
and a bit wild.
I don’t believe in religious pursuits of love
I just want to be enough.
but I feel like I’m not.
Bird in cage I am
with no name
and she flies so much better than I do.’
*a poem from me.