The crushed, the dying, the wandering.
The young, the growing, the old.
The bud, the blossom, the wither.
To the young bird caged by limitations,
Who had great big wings to soar high,
Only to be bound by society.
"Shush" they said, and so he did.
P.S. Don't ever let them clip off your wings.
You are not theirs to bring down.
To the corpse barely hanging on a cliff.
To the guy who has given up.
Know that this isn't over.
Instead of digging your own grave, waiting for your time,
You could have made so much more.
P.S. Persevere and keep moving forward.
You are not theirs to mold.
To the wandering wraith that has seen the passing of time,
With nothing to hope for tomorrow,
Keep your head up and look ahead.
There are joys in every corner you have yet to check
P.S. Don't live the same year 75 times and call it a life.
You are not theirs to control.
To all of me,
The free, the caged, the stray.
The child, the teen, the adult.
The past, the present, the future.
La vie est drole.
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