Some birds are meant to be poems
Some things always feel the same. Like, a perfect day in May after you finish your final spanish exam and you´re sitting in those plastic chairs that are attached to the desk, it is the last day of school and your teacher and some kid in class are playing their guitars for everyone. Some Bob Dylan and some of their own, seeing how they start out shy, filling the silence with words before they begin the music. As I´m listening and staring out the window, I see a bird fly up to a lightpost, and hearing my teacher, who looks much like a young Bob Dylan himself or just that he could be a folk singer, sing with a soft genuine voice, sweet melodies in his foreign tongue, I feel something.
I think about how someday in the future I won´t feel embarrassed to cry in public, they come as they will anyways, but in that time I won´t try to hide it, and wipe them away discreetly. When people comment on the wetness in my eyes, I will just shrug and say, "Yeah, I always cry during these things." In response they would open their eyes a little wider, shrug and nod. Everyone goes back to smoking their cigarette or texting on their cellphone, and I will still be completely inside my head.
These times of feeling adrift like birchwood, sinking, rising, falling down again, landing on the shore. And it always leads to this, now settled on land, not knowing what to do except lay there waiting...to explode into the sky, to spread the ash, to lay a blanket down for the smoke. To have a letter hidden inside a body. To decompose. It was a poem never told.
I think about how someday in the future I won´t feel embarrassed to cry in public, they come as they will anyways, but in that time I won´t try to hide it, and wipe them away discreetly. When people comment on the wetness in my eyes, I will just shrug and say, "Yeah, I always cry during these things." In response they would open their eyes a little wider, shrug and nod. Everyone goes back to smoking their cigarette or texting on their cellphone, and I will still be completely inside my head.
These times of feeling adrift like birchwood, sinking, rising, falling down again, landing on the shore. And it always leads to this, now settled on land, not knowing what to do except lay there waiting...to explode into the sky, to spread the ash, to lay a blanket down for the smoke. To have a letter hidden inside a body. To decompose. It was a poem never told.