I mentioned this one in tumblr so I might as well post it

A poem about flying


I was not given wings
they told me it was normal
to be a late bloomer
that not everyone is the same
that the true wingless are rare
and do I feel so special as to be rare?
But soon all my friends soared
and I was left grounded.

They said it was hormonal
fixable, a few pills away
I confess I just adjusted
most of life happens on the ground
the skies are for special moments
the currents for sharing
with others of similar plumage
not me, never me.

Still, when they talk about
wind currents, feather oil,
and preening, oh, the preening
I have no choice but to feel
like a part of life is forever
out of reach
so I think about pills and surgeries
in my room, on the ground, late at night
I think about what color they would be
the feathers I'll never have.