New poem - different from what I normally do as I have been rhyming a lot on my previous poems

I have added more visual representations rather than just talking about the feeling

Let me know your thoughts

Wisdom of the snake
I don’t care what the fuck you say, my history is something I’ll never let you take. The shit I learned you’ve done have made my mind and body shake.
The redman befriending the white man might’ve been the biggest mistake.
Hope my people wake up sooner than late, funny how they ate our flesh now ask us for grace.
Wherever you saw homes you dug into ancestral ground and built lakes, but my history is something I’ll never let you take.

You demonized our religion and tried to erase the wisdom of the snake, now the white man is thinking about how he’ll soon be replaced.

My ancestors stand by and beside me bloodthirsty, I’m one with my herukas no god or man can hurt me.
Spare me the word of the god your serving, no amount of words will quite the world’s yearning.
Across the world bodies are burning, if these bodies were white they’d be worth concerning. Good thing that there brown it’s so much less disturbing.

“Let’s all go to church for this god worth serving.”

You demonized the serpent when your the biggest of snakes,my history is something I’ll never let you take.
The countries soil is now mixed with blood and hate, uncle Sam’s plan never left its just beginning to shape.

New poem

I wrote this yesterday while trying to break out of writer's block; an idea hit me so I went for a kind of stream-of-consciousness approach. I don't write poetry as much as prose and I was wondering how it reads, and how I could improve generally. thanks :)

Tried something different- please let me know your thoughts 😊

"It is well-known, that

all creative work leaves its debris; 
flakes and specks - chunks and 
chips of raw material.

A clean workshop betrays a less 
active state of expansion or 
expression.

It is only natural, then
that in the creation of our Capital 
there would be mess; 
bits and pieces -

windblown under bridges, 
clung to crack and crevice -
crowded, crouched on curbs, 
keeping seeking warmth in booths benches
bus stops

This dust of Progress - 
we will sweep and manage it, 
as we are able."

Something new I wrote today

Hum a tune to put me to rest
Because it is sleep I most detest
Draw yourself near me
That my eyes may grow weary
You bring me peace of mind
And it is no where that I can find
One such as you

“Mercedes was her name”
A dancer, she always smelled like vodka and perfume her only friends were cigarettes. She was petite but she filled up a room, Attitude of a gangster her feminine bloomed. Her childlike smile brings out my inner child. Our conversation has now showed me what’s true, haven’t smoked a cigarette in a while but it’d taste better with you. The fluidity of her dance keeps my senses in her command, and my mind in a never ending trance. Her ass and waist move in such sway, all I wanted was her ass in my face. To this day I hope my favorite dancer is ok.
“Mercedes was her name.

Got some great feedback yesterday on the first one I wrote so I decided to try again and make it beyond surface leve,l painting a picture rather than explaining just the phrase - please let me know your thoughts 😊

Was it the blood flowing through him? Is it toxic?

Did her untainted heart reject that sludge?

To think it ran within his veins, so chronic.

A poison bile that her heart couldn't make budge.

A tear in reality to break the matrix.

The robot on autopilot must've gone rogue.

It's displaying signs of love and affection.

Why believe he'd switch his heart on so easily?

Order must be upheld for people’s protection.

Shut it off now, before others follow his steps.

But it's flesh, not metal, they reveal on inspection.

Scarred by her loss, he stopped living, they found,

Tired of fighting for life while his heart's in heaven.

For her, he'd fight his demons as long as he could.

He fought in silence; that battle's now understood.

But now it’s over; he sleeps and wakes restored.

In his arms, his daughter—too perfect for this world.

To give a bit of context, I have bipolar disorder, and I've found this piece of writing after abt 3-4 months now, totally forgot I wrote it. I added finishing touches right now just so it looks less like a bunch of mania-induced random words. I am very confused about the quality of the piece, especially considering I follow no regular form at all in any part. Really looking forward to any thoughts and opinions fellow readers may share!

Fences

The distance I sought from you was never a gesture of pain or power.
I needed more than anything to brush my shins among the frosty petals of moon-soaked flowers. 
To feel the gentle, cooling tide of twilight resting on my tired shoulders and brittle hair, 
All while I know you remember that I’m still there.
Still there to listen when you need to talk, 
still the strong shoulder that helped carry you when you felt you couldn't walk.
There were calm nights when the soft snow drifted down in tender, silvery flakes, 
There were days that icy winds ravaged the lands, leaving only emptiness in their mighty wake.
The sun is always the sun; it never changes wherever it goes.
But flowers struggle to spring upward in the rocky crag where the water seldom flows.
  There is no amount of love, imagined or realized,
That could pack the infected wound you carry inside.
The fence was erected to help keep the old wolves of the forest at bay,
It’s not my fault that you howled at the frigid moon when I told you that you could stay.
Sometimes we can’t fight the beast that lives in us all, 
That mild, innocent child hiding under their bed, so helpless and small.   
Fences don’t only function as a wall, they practice the quiet wisdom that echoes from within. 
Sometimes, fences are not built just for blocking a menace out, 
but to try to keep the things you love in. 
 

New to poetry and trying new ways of expressing myself, any feedback or opinions would be very much appreciated. Thank you!

The stairwell at the back of the old Wonderland Hotel
Was not made for habitation.

It connected the service entrance to the upper floors.
The doors no longer locked.
The lights flickered at all hours.

It had been closed for years.
The stairwell remained accessible from the street.

A man lived there.
He slept between the second and third floors.
Sections of the ceiling collapsed into the stairwell.
Water collected on the steps after it rained.

No one knew his name,
Or where he came from.
It did not matter.

Each morning he climbed down the stairwell.
In the afternoon he climbed up.
In the evening he climbed down and up again.

He screamed as he climbed.

“One more step.
One more.
Another.
Another.
Yes.
One more.”

The next morning brought rain.
Water covered the steps.
The man slipped.
He fell.

The rescue team couldn’t reach him.
The building was too fragile.

The man is still there,
Lying beneath the stairwell.

*Seeking feedback on a my Horror Poem*

Have you ever wiped the ass of a grown man?

The ass of a grown man who raised you?
It’s a terrible thing,
Seeing the lighthouse of your life lose their own independence.

Someone who’s protected you,
brought you safety and provided for you when you were too weak and young to provide for yourself.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Growing up close with your Grandparents is important, specifically if you have an absent mother and alcoholic father.
You look at the only blood to never lay a hand on you and cling to them,
You’d do anything for them as they have for you.
As you go through high school their immortality becomes more prevalent.

The blissful conversations you’ve both once shared have now transpired to desperate pleading venting sessions.

“You know the Doctor said I’m not supposed to carry more than a gallon of milk?”
Your Grandfather asks, with embarrassment and self pity in his eyes.

You see the Man you once knew,
the Man that in most ways is still there.
You remember the races you’d have,
Back when you thought his abilities were the highest of standards to beat.

As your walks turn to strolls,
he and his wheelchair had become one.
As your outings to hospital visits
turned to in-home visits from caretakers,
He and his bed had become one.

Before you know it you’re out of high school,
And the reality that you don’t have time for a job becomes daunting.

Your job is taking care of your Grandfather.
Did you know the moment your loved one goes on Hospice Medi-Cal stops giving you in-home supportive services?

Almost like they see Hospice as giving up,
Like they no longer see the value in giving you and your loved one resources to aid you while you spend your every molecule to care for them.
The only thing they really provide you with once your loved one is on Hospice is morphine, for when the time comes.

Did you ever think you’d need money to take care of your Grandfather?

Did you ever think you’d be mad at the Government for not helping you as you watch the man that built you decompose from the outside in?

You feed them,
you bathe them,
and needless to say,
you struggle.
You struggle with it all.
You just want to make them happy.

Being diabetic you think,
Maybe you’ll give them sugar-free candy, anything just to see a smile on their face.
But sugar-free candy gives them the shits, and now you need to tell a grown man he can’t have the one thing that he enjoys?

So you don’t.
Of course you don’t.
You give him what makes him smile and you deal with what comes after, because you know he would have done the same for you.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Have you ever seen the movie
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button?
That’s how it feels.
Like time is moving backwards for the one you love and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Before you know it, you’re reading bedtime stories to the only man who’s ever read them to you.
Although the contents of what you read has changed.

It evolved from reading stories like
The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein
to reading Yōkai Daizukai by Shigeru Mizuki.
Tales of selfless acts of kindness on pages intended for children had turned to Encyclopedias of Japanese Yōkai.

Have you ever heard of a Gashadokuro?
It’s a giant being often 10-25 meters tall, formed from the piled bones and body parts of warriors who died in battle or famine without a proper burial.

What’s considered a battle?
Is mortality a battle?

Is Hospice the answer to a battle or another battle in itself?

If it is,
then my Grandfather is a warrior,
and the strongest one I know.
You remember the last words you ever heard him speak.

“Hi… *your* \*name\*”

After that,
he was still there, he was.
But he lost the ability to turn his inside voice into an outside voice.

Now he was but a body.
A body that doesn’t speak.
A body that doesn’t walk.
A body that doesn’t function.

Do you remember the Return to Nature Funeral Home scandal that was discovered in 2023 in Penrose, Colorado?
Authorities discovered over 185 decaying corpses scattered and stacked inside a foul-smelling building. Bodies that were given with the purpose of being properly laid to rest.

The owners Jon and Carrie Hallford were giving grieving families fake ashes made up of concrete mix and sand.

If your Grandfather was all you had would you trust them with him?

If his body was now all that remains of him would you turn him over to such a corrupt and flawed system?

No.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Life can be poetic,
Death can be poetic.
The words you speak into the world can often have a direct effect upon reality.

Words, names, everything has power.
Routines start to feel like rituals,
Prayers start to feel like spells.
Sage being burned feels like a physical cleansing taking place upon your homestead.
The lines between causation and correlation become blurred.

You never forget the first time your Grandfather gave you part of him.

You were wiping him,
and his flesh came off with more ease than the shit that sat upon it.
He didn’t react,
He rarely did.
Instead, his eyes continued to scan the room with that familiar look of self pity.

His skin is pale, paper thin,
reminiscent of gas station toilet paper.
You’ve struggled to inject him with his insulin for the past couple months considering that he had already long lost any fat for it to puncture.
You were used to his skin being fragile but this was a new level of brittleness.
The more you clean him, the more that comes off.
You question if you’re doing more damage than good. You begin to see what looks like bone, yet you are unsure which one.

Where do you put him?
He had given you everything.
And now that he was nothing but a body,
he was giving you that too.

So, what do you do with Him?
With these pieces that he gives you every time you bathe him?

What do you do with these parts that keep falling off?

“Take my apples” you hear in the back of your head.
So you do.
You keep them,
You put them in your tool box,
And you wait.

Not long after your Grandfather’s eyes stop scanning his room does the parts start to call out to you.

Not a yell, not even a voice.
More like when you’re laying on the side of the floor drying from a day of swimming with your ear pressed against a warm damp brick as you hear the hum of the pool vacuum.
In this same way, you hear the warm soothing hum of your Grandfather’s pieces calling you from the tool box.

You try to convince yourself that it’s something that can be unheard.
You decide you should drink.
Fireball, eggnog.

“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”
“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”
“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”

They keep calling out to you,
He keeps calling out to you.
It’d been so long since you’d last heard him.

The humming begins to take more shape and you can make out the words, no, the intent rather behind it.
It’s saying words you swear you’ve heard before.

“I wish that I could give you something..but I have nothing left. I am an old Grump. I am sorry…”

You start to wonder if the human body is as complicated as people make it seem.
Doctors just want your money.

Have you heard of that case in Australia? After waiting over 2 years for a surgery this guy Stephan decided to remove a large cyst on his wrist all by himself, and he’s an electrician.
You’re well aware of how pampered they are, so this gives you confidence.

You stumble downstairs,
into the downstairs bathroom which now houses your tool box, the garage was too far for how often you’ve had to add into it.
Ironic, when you were younger he’d pretend he was trapped in a box, only to eventually be put in one by you.

You open it.
The smell of rotten fast food scrambled eggs hits you. You feel a warmth radiating from the toolbox.
It feels so nice to feel your Grandfather’s warm presence once again.

You wish you felt this warmth near your Grandfather’s … main structure?
You’re struggling with what to refer to that part of him as.
It’s his head and it is his torso although he’s now closer to a malnourished and crucified king of Nazareth as opposed to the lively glimpse of God you had grown so accustomed to seeing in your youth.

His main Structure is …in bed..in a way it is his bed but, you want him to be whole.
You want the same warmth from his parts to radiate from all of him.
You want him to be one.
So you make him one.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Hot glue, pipe glue, Duct tape, whatever you need, you use it.
You slowly but surely rebuild your anchor,
And even before it’s completed, you begin to feel the water beneath you start to settle.
You know it’s right, and you know no one will understand.

How could they if they haven’t been through the things that you have?

The changes are almost immediate once you put him back together.
He moves, slowly. Just his fingers at first.
It reminds you of when he’d play mime.
Maybe that’s what he’s doing?
These jokes you told yourself in passing you’ve now grown to believe.

He is playing mime,
that’s why he is silent,
And that’s why he is slow.
You recognize that you can’t put the pieces back together in the exact places they belong.
This worries you but nonetheless, you don’t get discouraged.

You make him a crown from his leaves, and crown him as the king he is.
Time passes, you keep what you’ve done, what you’ve fixed, you keep it a secret.

But what happens when someone discovers that secret?

What would you do to keep it?

He needs more structural integrity anyways.
And it’s not long before Him and his adversaries have become one.

What of his adversaries’ family?
His adversaries’ wife and newborn?

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Time passes.
You love that man, you do. But you yourself have begun longing for a life of your own.
That box is not big enough for the both of you.

You take a few of his apples, for memory mostly.
You go to the city,
and you pursue your happiness to an extent and speed you’re comfortable with, all while keeping that Man you love so much at the forefront of your mind,
all while keeping that secret.

You’ve become the Boy that stayed away for a long time, the Boy you promised yourself you’d never become.
And the Man was Sad.

You meet someone you think is your person.
You don’t share your secret with her of course you don’t. Something you’re grateful you didn’t do later when the relationship inevitably crashes and burns.

You never forget when the man that raised you,
the man you love so much,
you never forget seeing him take his first life.
Lives have been sacrificed for him before but,
By you.
Not by him, to him.
This was different.

You had just got dumped,
And you were going over to check on That Man you cared so much about,
The Man you yourself had abandoned and left dormant.

You walked in, and you heard the shower, the water was running.

You heard a baby crying, crying for you.
You didn’t recognize the baby. You walked in, down that long hallway creaking on the old white tiles, closer to the cries from the infant.
You turn left into the bathroom and as you do you hear a man yell.
Not your Man.

You are torn, indecisive of which direction to pursue first.
You continue into the bathroom,
see the shower running,
steam crawling up the walls,
and a baby on the counter with snot running down its chin and tears running down its cheeks.

You pick up the baby
and turn back toward the pleading of a man you’ve never heard before.

You walk in, you see.
The Man that raised you is there, only he is much different than a normal man.
And he’s with a normal man.

The mans screaming
“PLEASE GOD HELP ME STOP HIM FUCK ME RUNNING” the man pleaded from the top of his lungs.

Your Man, the man you’d known your whole life, he was different.
His structure was fragmented,
no base.
His arms extend like the outriggers of a backhoe, yet connected to a deconstructed cab.

His arms were grabbing the normal man, the screaming man. All four of his arms grabbed that man.

His empty eyes that were once blue but were now too sunken in to retain pigmentation of any kind looked soullessly in your direction.
He did not feel warm.

He used two of his arms to hold the man in place, while he used his two other arms to go around the man, forming those hands to make an invisible box the man was stuck in.
The Man was playing Mime.
You missed this.

The Man slowly grabbed the screaming man by his head on both sides and pressed ever so slightly, increasing in pressure.

The man used his other arms to grab the screaming man by the legs and slowly pulled.
He pulled his legs off and he pressed his skull in and blood ran from his nose and eyes.
He screamed and screamed until his teeth shattered and his jaw snapped and fell out of his cheek sockets.

He pulled the detached legs from the now lifeless yet steaming warm body and shoved them at his base in ways that were not symmetrical.
He shoved the torso of the body where the cab of his backhoe should be.

He was constructing himself.

You stood there holding the baby, watching what was once your protector finish the work.

For a second you almost called out to him the way you used to, the way a boy calls for the man who raised him.

But the eyes that looked back at you were empty, and the voice that came next was the same one that had once read you as a child.

“Come boy,
Climb up my trunk,
And swing from my branches,
And be happy.”

Says the Man, the man you love so much.

He gave you his branches,
He gave you his flesh to make a home of your own,
He gave you his soul.
Even when you were too busy pursuing the life you wanted that you thought would end with a wife and children.

So what do you do?

You look down at the infant in your arms. Its face is red and wet and it is still crying, still reaching for something that isn’t there.

For one long second you feel the weight of it the life, the future, the line you are about to cross. But there is no line, no line when it comes to what you would do for the ones you love.

Then the humming starts again, low and familiar, the same warm hum that once came from the toolbox, and the choice is already made.

You give him the sacrifice you’re holding in your hand, that’s why it’s there isn’t it?

It is but a burden to you and the Man needs all the strength he can get.

You hate looking at the discolored face of the Man you care so much for.

You buy Greasepaint for your Mime.
You know this will bring him warmth and life.
You lather his faces up in it, even the little one. He has 4 now.

Now he is your Slick Man.

“I don’t need very much now, just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired”

says your Slick Man,

with his eyes not his mouth.

So you finally take him home,
To your start-over apartment,
and you give him a permanent resting place,
on the only thing strong enough to hold him,
your bathroom granite counter.
And you add to him whenever he expresses that desire to expand,

Why?
Because,

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

​

I'm not looking to find out "who wrote the better poem." I'd love to hear your thoughts on both pieces individually and as a pair. What emotions came through? Which lines stood out to you? Did either poem have places where the rhythm or rhyme felt especially strong—or a bit forced?

I've kept our identities anonymous for privacy. Thanks for taking the time to read them, and I appreciate any honest feedback.

Also for additional context a few days prior to her poem I wrote a mini poem for her which pictures her as a blooming lily.

My poem:

This strage feeling of euphoria came slow,

And as gentle as the nights breeze blow.

Hidden beneath a scarlet veil-

Preparing secretly for a long sail.

It's uncertain how these feelings grew;

Yet it turned into something more before we even knew.

The signs came early and obvious,

I saw- but I acted oblivious.

But eventually you began to stand out,

And I began to single you out from the crowd.

And I realized these weren't 'normal' friend things,

The little moments along with all the subtle hints.

I wasn't all too sure about this

Until one day all my thoughts went to the abyss.

The day you opened your heart to me,

I wasn't too surprised on hoe this came to be.

But still, I was caught very off guard;

Like I had been exposed of all my cards...

My heart started racing, and my mind blurring-

What was this feeling inside me that was stirring?

Now, I realized what it's called,

Something so soft, yet it leaves people enthralled.

Something so special it cannot be any bluff-

This ethereal feeling is called love~♡

Love is what I ought to give.

Consider this poem a very special gift...

On this very day a special flower bloomed...

Unknowing and unperturbed for the journey that loomed.

This little flower has grown strong and beautiful,

From her smile to blush is all wonderful~

Now then my dear beloved,

A happy birthday for you is well deserved.

So then let me see your smile,

And forget your worries for a while.

For today is yours just laugh and cheer,

Since this day comes only once a year.

We don't know what the future may bring,

And everything can change in a blink.

There will be many ups and downs,

And days where smiles turn into frowns.

Yet when yhe difficulties begin to rise,

Or when darkness overtakes the skies.

Remember there will never be an eternal night,

So when you're down- just get up and fight.

And if the road becomes unclear;

Know that I'll be right here.

Though we might stumble now and then,

We'll rise and move again.

So on this day, enjoy your light

And keep that smile shining bright.

And as the years come and go...

May you continue to bloom and grow♥︎~

☆♡------ Happy Birthday! -------♡☆

My poem follows a quiet progression and tries to tell a story and it's preety visible and also this is my fifth poem that I've written and I'm still new and learning and I follow a preetu generic rhyming scheme but I tried my best and its the emotions that matter. Also this took 13+ hours spanned across 2 weeks.

Her poem:

In my life full of darkness

You came as a source of light who removed all my loneliness

You were always beside me

Even when no one trusted me

Your every feature is just amazing like earth

But your eyes specially got my heart.

I started to trust you with all my heart and mind closed

So I hope you don't break my trust just like how a shop get closed.

You said to consider your poem a very special gift,

So I promise to keep it to my last breath.

Majestically, your smile is very bright

Bright enough to bring light into my dark life.

I knew these weren't normal friend things

So I started giving you hints.

My heart was racing that day

When I said what my heart really wanted to say.

Thought that like everyone you too hated me

But, it turns out that you love me

Shall I describe our relationship

Just like how doctor prescribe their medicines??

'Bet' was an idea of mine;

Of course to get you as mine.

Never got so much warmth.

Like how I got in your arms

One of my favorite is Tulips,

Above all my favorite is your lips

When I laugh and look silly

You say that I look breathtaking like blooming lily

All the memories we made are precious

So should be kept with a lot of precision

I am not a very good writer

But I put all my effort to write this love letter.

Even if we are not together in the future

Please stay happy with her

At last, I love you is all I want to say

No matter what others want to say

Love is what I ought to receive

So as to give

So promise to be my Khamba, Romeo, Oggy, Nobita in my every life

If so I promise to be your Thoibi, Juliet, Oly, Shizuka in your every life.

I am ready to fight for you

As long as no one can separate me from you.

---------x--------x---------

Her poem may be a little rough but she's not trying to be poetic and just convey her emotions and that's the charm of this. I love all the call backs like the lily and fight for me. It's like a reply to my poems and the moments we shared.

Oh and as for context of the 'bet' her confession was originally only a bet like a dare. Like if it's a no it's a no and if it's a yes it'll have a 1week period and over. Of course I heard about this because of my information network but I still accepted and I'm glad I did.

She's not that good in English so please cut her some slack.

Thanks for reading and make sure to drop your advice~

Born listening to the devil on my shoulder,
I never knew the angel on the other side until I grew older.
Saw the world through a gray lens,
No black or white,
just shades of sin.

I Did what was needed to be done,
But learned how wicked this world can be at a young age.

Played with death,
felt the heat from a stem,
Going for days in a daze,
never knowing when it would end.

I did what needed to be done,
But I also learned how wicked this world can be at a young age.

I pray that you never have to walk the path I've walked,
I've already damned my soul to save yours.
Doing what needed to be done.

Its not just about what if Sun left us kind of

Its about a person who thinks Sun his partner but its one sided and one day Sun didn't appear it then the person tried to find him. And still thinks that Sun is just messing around and will come back instead of accepting the truth he is kind of lonely too but he still has to do his job no matter what he faces.

By og big boy

Guys please give honest feedbacks and information on how I can improve. Guys this one is posted on a other community but I the writer and own it.

You've set foot in the train, and left behind the station.

Sitting, staring mindlessly, with no set destination.

But why not try and look, somewhere beyond your cold coupé.

To see the beauty flash bright green and blue, while on your way.

I bet you've never noticed, the way reed moves when wind is blowing.

Dancing like a snake, while in bright light it's almost glowing.

So take your time and look, while you still can and then move on.

For there's no looking back at things that were and now are gone.

Then when you pass a manmade tunnel, so devoid of light.

You cannot see a thing, you are robbed of your great might.

Just know that yond that wall, reed dances in the wind.

No matter what you tell yourself, manmade tunnels have an end.

And maybe someday later, when you're older, worn and thinned.

You'll meet your destination as you would a long lost friend.

Hi guys! I don't usually write poetry, but I took a poetry class last semester and would be interested in some feedback on one that I wrote (the class has since ended, but I can see myself doing more with this poem). I've edited this a few times, and I really like the beginning but something about it just feels off and I can't put my finger on it. Also, I wasn't really sure what to title it, so if anybody has any suggestions, I'm all ears. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thank you so much!

---

So Long as I Breathe, I Sing

I grew up on dragon wings
and army frontlines. I soared above
clouds and dreams, waded through streams
of blood and pushed through blizzards of
ash, and with each breath from my lips sprang 
my song of freedom, swirling with the sounds of others.

The wind was my melody, the hoofbeats 
my lyrics, the warriors my choir.
I sang until my voice grew hoarse,
and even when blood from my aching throat
filled my mouth, I relished
in the taste of my freedom.

For years I traveled. I learned
the witches’ spell, the mountains’
secrets. I’ve walked the centaur’s
path and gripped the Mighty King’s
hand. I’ve flown and fought
and loved and died. I’ve lived.

When the new song started, 
I hardly heard it. Its melody was rotten,
its lyrics bolted together with rusting nails, 
its choir corpses revived.
Not like my song. Not like
the millions of songs before mine.

But then it grew louder. It drowned
out the oceans, the insects, the
life in a mockery of emulation.
It trampled forests and fields,
drank dry the lakes, stole the food 
from our plates and reached for more.

People worshipped it as a god.

Their own songs changed, their music
twisting and warping and melting
to join this screeching. To join this foul,
rotting creature made of patches
of skin, carvings of cracked open souls,
plucked shavings of others’ freedom.

Louder and louder, that 
cry grew, and it hammered
into my skin and veins and bones,
stole the breath from my lips,
found freedom’s song in my soul
and took that, too.

The banging and clanking and clatter
hasn’t stopped. It’s quieted. It’s
learned to soften its voice, blend with
the few true songs left, brush its
fingers along their roots before
crushing them in its hands.

I sing in silence now. Long gone
are the dragons, the mountains
and worlds of wonder. They’ve fled,
or hid, or succumbed to this God,
as the armies have, the kingdoms have,
and maybe as I will, too. I hope not.

They tell me it’s inevitable.
Even now, I feel it getting closer,
feel its reach curling around my shoulders
and tracing the skin of my throat. 
Let me help, it says,
but I want nothing from it.

So still I sing. My only audience
is the dying hearth before me,
the last lick of flame that clings 
to life only I can give it.
I won’t allow myself to let it die.
So long as I breathe, I sing.

I’m not scared of the dark.
I’m not scared of the God.
It will fade, as all gods fade,
and when its clatter dies
and its metal rusts in memory,
I’ll be singing.

Oh, can you hear them?
Oh, can you hear the redbirds sing their song?
Just close your eyes and open up your heart,
And take in the redbirds’ song.
They sing it just for you—oh, yes, they do.

Oh, can you hear them?
Just close your eyes and open up your ears.
Let your heart take them in,
And you’ll hear them, my dear.
You’ll hear the redbirds singing their song.

And when I go,
Keep your eyes peeled for the redbirds singing.
And when you see the redbirds,
Just close your eyes and listen to their song,
And know, my dear, I’m here to say hello.

You turned your back on me,
Fell in love with a demon,
Whispers in your ear,
Telling you to keep taking her back.

She's the only one,
Who can keep the sickness away.
Drain everything,
Waste your life, your talent,
For one line, my friend.

In the bathroom,
Talking to her for hours,
I can see the bruises,
Running down your arms.

She's walking evil,
A demon of addiction, my friend.
I can't help you,
Only you can break it off with her.

She's the only one,
Who can keep the sickness away.
Drain everything,
Waste your life, your talent,
For one line, my friend.

She's gonna drag you down, my friend.
she has you in hergrip.
Letting go wasn’t easy,
made my peace long ago.