I am the bird that everyone knows.
Never sees, only feels my presence.
Visible in your mind, noticeable in your heart.
My wingtips are dashed with anxiety,
my tail feathers streaked with frustration and loss.
On my back, I am speckled with distress and pressure,
unavoidable.
I am cursed;
you are cursed.
I am cursed to live with you,
with everyone.
You are cursed with my presence,
but you can adjust to let me fit
make room
even though I'm unappreciated.
I am here
no matter what.
My favorite type of writing
is when I'm in the zone
I'm typing
no hesitations
just plugging in all of my honest thoughts and opinions into my somewhat-anonymous profile
spinning deeper and deeper into my spirals
In my mind
"Thanksgiving" has warped definition
twisted and mushed and changed by lots of different people
it used to be a holiday of celebration;
now it's harsh and revealed and true
it's cruel and violent
It's cold out
it's snowing
falling slowly
steadily
reassuringly
it brings a sense of calm
the world has begun the process of renewing;
once the snow melts
it will be spring
life will return
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