Wicked Critics



They look like innocent birds,

flying high not knowing what to 

cross over (their predators just waiting), but they still fly 

anyways knowing that they will fall (shedding bitter tears).


That is me, that is not them,

they are like crows (cawing their raucous entrance), but I am 

like a blue jay that sings her song 

peacefully, often referred to a lullaby. 


They come at me with wicked 

intentions (like they appear), and I sing

away hoping they will fly back to their nest 

(on dreary trees) and forget about the naive me. 


Many say birds they are (giving blessings) so 

they mustn’t be so mean, but no,

not these birds- they fly high to find their prey, but not 

to feast, even worse, anguish them (with their fire cracker beaks).  


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