Sick Bird's Antics

You built me up,

A bird sick and weak

And expected me to sing,

And I sung out of key

But that was no good,

I should sing the notes right

And I should.

But my voice has been broken,

From all the lies that you’ve spoken,

And now my notes aren’t as bright.

Because you ripped my heart,

And tore my eyes,

A burning bird meets its subtle demise

But this deceased bird should still sing,

You say.

And I sang.

But I couldn’t ever sing the notes right,

Like a staling bird breaking its flight,

I had no wings,

And in the curve of the night,

This became clear as crystal spite.

Then I fell faster than ever before,

You clipped my breath,

You stole my soar

And when I said I could take it no more,

You made fun of me.

You called me a whore.

And these are things I won’t ever forget,

A seething bird wrapped in regret,

With silly scars and a messed up head,

Stress eating away at my silhouette.

And here you will not ever see

My feathers bloody and a wasted plead,

Because you’ve gotten all you need

A bird that sings, though out of key.

And you can still hide those ugly notes,

To make everything look normal to most,

Yes, none of this hurt will ever show

Under thick layers of pink ribbons and bows.