People are like birds, except for one thing.
We both have young, watch them grow,
and when happy, we sing.
When asked why, we don’t know.
Why does a song dictate every feeling?
Upbeat makes us happy, slow makes us sad.
The words leave our minds reeling,
then the tears make us mad.
Mad at ourselves, for letting us feel.
For letting the words get to us,
letting it be too real.
For being allowed to trust.
We watch our young grow, then push them out the nest.
We guide them when they need it,
and tell them we know best.
But we know nothing.
We don’t know what comes after death,
what happens when we die.
We just keep thinking we know best,
and start to believe in our lie.
We look at the birds and think we want to fly,
think we want to aim higher,
and reach for the sky.
Are you calling me a liar?
What happens when we reach the sky?
Has anyone asked that question?
Or questioned that lie?
Maybe they don’t pay attention.
Maybe we’ll fall,
if we reach too high.
Maybe it’s not worth it at all,
and we’re just waiting to die.
Like the birds. Like the trees. We all will die, some sooner than the others,
but the birds accept it.