Into the den of the wicked blackbird

and past my less fortunate peers,

I arrived in an orchard humming with growth

and the beauty I no longer possessed.


Through the thick branches and under their leaves-

who provided proof to skeptics

that come spring again she’d be productive-

and to a heavy halt I came.


Had I arrived, or was I still troubled?

Like my red and black pride-ink, permanent

in a condition that made me a puppet

to the callous claws of the smirking blackbird.


And so in the darkness I surrendered

to the smiles who mock my light.


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741