Posted in original

Tattoo

I’ve never been a fan, not much of a hater

though I never truly thought of it as art

Preferred those who were without it

like how I preferred those who did not smoke

He was completely the opposite

of my ideal guy

But then again what are ideals?

than mere thoughts and fantasies

 

He was real, as real as can be

he had tattoo all over his back and upper arms

Yet, fonder I grew of him

His honesty and stories, captured me

his charisma, his smile, his friendliness

All bottled into one, which is him

His voice, as he sings, echoes to my ears

 

The tattoos, that he thinks of as art

I’ve come to accept as it is

as a part of him, as a symbol of himself

I admired him, liked him, fell for him

fell deep, fell hard

 

Now, here I am, alone and without

thinking of his smile, his voice

and those tattoos

Posted in favorites

I know why the caged bird sings

A free bird leaps on the back

Of the wind and floats downstream

Till the current ends and dips his wing

In the orange suns rays

And dares to claim the sky.

 

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage

Can seldom see through his bars of rage

His wings are clipped and his feet are tied

So he opens his throat to sing.

 

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage

Can seldom see through his bars of rage

His wings are clipped and his feet are tied

So he opens his throat to sing.

 

The free bird thinks of another breeze

And the trade winds soft through

The sighing trees

And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright

Lawn and he names the sky his own.

 

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams

His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

His wings are clipped and his feet are tied

So he opens his throat to sing.

 

The caged bird sings with

A fearful trill of things unknown

But longed for still and his

Tune is heard on the distant hill

For the caged bird sings of freedom.

 

-Maya Angelou