thorn bird

It has been a long few months, and I have not had the words to describe it, to fully summarize the exhausting mucking-through that has been the bulk of my writing hiatus. Writer’s block is an awful affliction and I am clawing my way out. Tonight I was feeling a bit bristly and I picked this out, each word a little razor in my brain. Ever stepped on a prickly fern? They burn, and itch, and they’re impossible to see when they’re lodged in the thick skin at the bottom of your foot and therefore impossible to remove. More than ever, I am seeing various aspects of my life and feeling very similarly toward those variables in my life that I do with those goddamn prickly ferns.

So I wrote this out of frustration and was so relieved that something that was not complete and/or literal shit came out of me that I wanted to share it with someone.

Thanks for sticking around, and please tell your friends. Sometimes I write poems, and sometimes I try hard and write poems that might in some way suck a little less than others. I’ll let you be the judge and I’ll appreciate any feedback. Thank you.



Thorn bird


I will sing the song of swans for you

To prove

I possess a worth

To be proven.

I’d die to live, and lived only to die

By appearances,

Expectations and the infinite looping

Of what I think you think of me.

Be seen and not heard, suppress

The song and dance

Only when the world sleeps.

I took too long to arrive,

Born in the fall and kept going.

Flitting, unwittingly,

Mostly just unwillingly.

From rooftop to ledge,

Cliffs of my own creating

Could wings keep this heavy heart aloft?

A lack of faith, most disturbing,

In the simplicity of the wind;

Invisible strength, yet seen and so felt –

These things, in myself –

Mere melody without audience.

Every thorny poem

Until the words cut deep enough

to feel.

My song will be worth

Those words.





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