the birds still sing in my low, cozy cage

blanket spread flat flat sky open with stars emerging I quickly peddle home. here and there you see them, eyes gazing, wondering what unimpressive thing you will do next. The thing that will make them not like you anymore. And is that what you want? Maybe. Words, words, inadequate, poorly formed and edited. Thinking that you're in love...in love with yourself. People have a way of making you feel small when they don't mean to. Mr. B has the nerve, and enough money for his future, climbing his own high walls of inadequate plaster. His palace with tall ceilings, too high for me. Too high for anyone, even the songs of the birds. And yet, he tried. He still tries. To make me cry in public, and then this grown man starts tearing up too. Nonsense! When you make your own decisions as an adult it's different. I was a child and I didn't choose.

Whimpering sadness grief when there is so much real sadness it makes you feel small. And you should feel small. Then you can be normal again and open wide to see what you hate right in front of you. The awkwardnress, the people now that you can't seem to talk to because of history, the past. But you have a good excuse to leave. Or the friend that seems annoyed by you but you know you can't help how you are, you're just trying to be a good friend, but it doesn't always work out. And then the people, so many people, who think they know you and you just wait for them to see you as you are so they are demystified. You tried telling them and they couldn't get it. Sometimes I feel so so alone and then I see someone I know. Someone I want to see, an old friend, without having to try. No one ever really calls me. I have never been popular but I never tried. Remember when you had a phone for a purpose? And people would call it? Now we are so solitary, divided by neighborhoods, houses, times, and lack of telephone wire. But the birds still sing in my low, cozy cage.