Flying Pain

A bird was born to live, although it longed to die. Every time the nest fell out became a time to try.

Those jaded socialists were like dogs in backyards. Others stay watch, stationed in their regards.

The bird flew in bad weather and all did not know why. There was no-one to see it, when it broke down to cry.

And so this bird it flew from shinning sea to shore. Never staying long and always getting bored.

With good and bad to balance and hope to embrace. They banish for not speaking, language without a face.

The feathers grew rough and time went by so slow. The bird tried flying, without intent to grow.

And neither did the bird, as it became to know, that pain is just a feeling, that crawls between the walls, the ceiling and the floor.