Posted in the 'writings' section...

Late at night I'd write my lines, denial at my side,
Defiant words to fool you into thinking life was fine,
But stubborn have I always been, and stubborn am I still,
As a bird I perch here flightless, lacking passion, lacking will.

Although my heart seems armoured now, wings hide the underneath,
The fragile wings are paper thin, a cover for my grief...
For every friend I've hurt or lost, a feather torn and missing,
My pond reflects a pale sight, an ugly bird of skin.

Feathers grow, and flight will come, but I wonder at what cost,
Will these feathers ever number more than all the friends I've lost?
A bird of skin, in silence waits, without a song to sing.
It's not just will that grounds me, for I am a broken wing.

As I perch, atop my tree, watching others fly around,
I look upon my ugly skin, my feathers on the ground...
The realisation hits me now, I cannot grow these by myself,
My feathers need anothers' hand, I need anothers' help.

My talons, they relax their grip, from the tree of bitter grief,
And as I fall and hit the ground, I feel pain and relief.
Pain lies amongst my feathers torn, with all the friends I've lost,
Relief, my tree looks different now, I've fallen at the cross.