Blackbird

When I was young,

I heard the song of a caged blackbird singing,

I heard happiness and vitality in his voice,

like he was proud to have seen this year’s spring.

What I didn’t realize at the time

was that the blackbird song was not a song,

but an anthem of his misery,

 

for being confined in a shrinking jail,

repeating itself like a broken record player.

Unlike the bird, my cage was open and

my wings could unfurl, carrying me

to San Francisco, where I could

walk across the golden gate bridge,

to Tibet, where I could

 

climb Mt. Everest,

careful not to exert myself

because deep down I am frail.

My hands shake, my voice staggers

you could measure my self confidence

in the spoon-full of sugar I mix

into my morning coffee.

 

But if you give me a chance,

I will try my hardest to do my best,

and if it takes me a few tries,

it’s because I'm a spider,

carefully weaving a home between two branches.

When I have a daughter,

I’ll take pictures of her laughing

 

so that she can look back at the moments

when she forgot time existed

because when life slaps her in the face

I won’t always be there to hold her,

to make her favorite dinner that night.

She’ll come out with bruises on her hands,

too small to hold so much weight.

 

But I know she can survive with a smile,

which is why I want to be her inspiration

and keep getting back up

so she can look up at the sky

and smile

when she hears

the free blackbird singing.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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