The pigeons are only as dirty as your city.
They may be rats with wings,
But they lack the animosity of man.
When the World Dies
When the world dies, the pigeons will be there, their intelligence shimmering like the old sun, pushing their way through the city, existing among the carnage of end.
Earthworm
I need legs to walk the runway
I need curves to show my body
I need a voice to sing
I need wings to free my spirit
Scared
I’m scared of pretty things because I know I’ll never be one of them. As I touch my bumpy skin, dots of red flow across my face like a river. I know I’ll never be beautiful. I’ll never be beautiful.
Stillness
As the world shapes itself around efficiency, as the organic hands of workers and artists get replaced by the dull churning of machines, I find it most peaceful to embrace stillness. I want to be the grass sleeping in between the sidewalk as people walk and bustle around it. I want to be the unmoving thing, the tree standing as the temperamental weather dashes back and forth from rain to sunshine to hail. I don’t have to be moving all the time. I don’t want to be pushed toward the pace that others expect me to live in. For now, I’ll be idle, existing in a plane between the busyness of society and the complete serenity of nothingness.