Nobody's born that way.
It's the life you grow up in.
The choices you were given without the liberty to make them
The choices that were forced upon you
The life you once thought nurtured you, grew around to betray you
Tell me where's the liberty of choice? Liberty to taste freedom?
Liberty to escape not just from anyone else but sometimes from yourself too?
Liberty to escape without being called a coward, without being chased down by the terror you were escaping from.
Tell me then, tell me your expectations from a person
who carries the life that betrays her,
Terror that fills her up with dread and fear
Her survival at the stake of uncertainty
While most of the days,
She lives one day at a time
Waking up at the cusp of night
Contemplating what body she'll wake up in  tomorrow
Her mind, foreign to herself
Her much too familiar bed, a misfit against the markings on the wall
The walls of her bedroom, which were once yellow, now a dull blue
And this is just one of her many, many phases
She bleeds in colours,
Rarely red anymore
She hopes for her favourite one
But little did she know, the hope that almost flitted from her soul
Like a bullet graze had left a wound that can never be healed or forgotten

as the little bird tries to fly,
it explored the very sky,
with her wings waving so high,
with the joy she cry

as the little bird tries to sing,
she sang so loud hoping one could hear a thing,
she waved again her little wing,
little did they know she was yelling

as the little bird tries to speak,
no one wants to hear for she's so meek
everyone thought it was just a trick
but they can't see the tears on her cheek

as the little bird tries to escape
she tries to fit in any shape
with her wings she casually drape,
her little body she gently scrape

as the little bird tries to cry
she began to look at the sky
is she here to live or to die
no one really knows why

This silly little poem
          Gives flight to silly wings
                        I soar into the distance
A chain trailing at my feet
.
They tied me to the lighthouse
                  It's beam searching the footwall
My pen begins to waiver
.
The bird begins to fall
.
Near the rocks I'll stay
Crowing to the abyss
          Calling with my heart
And hear the echo fly offbeat
.
And so my poem waits
Without a place to go
Patiently I'm caged
.
Until the raven
                 breaks down walls.

Take my heart and squeeze it like the stress ball you use it for,
drench out the blood that slowly drips down the palm of your hand unto your wrists and take me as i am for your sudden bliss.
I feel the gated entry close me in, like a locked up bird cage with no way out for fallen angels.
Fallen angels are ones like me and you,
We try so hard to be free but always end up with clipped wings that don't seem to grow back.
Now can you understand me?

Clipped by the cage you're confined in,
Dark and compliant, a conflicted life of air,
All faces remembered, those who are in debt to the raven's snare,
Inspired by shadows that lurk in the sun, the ones with many sins,
You have a story to tell, but one mustn't dwell,
You will sing your family's name, let it echo like a bell,

Caged raven...what is it you think?

Some are like caged hens
banging there heads on the
        metal metaphors of desperations.

Non confirmative to the needs of seclusion,
as they were once free range.
           The eggs of doubt and walking in
secluded circles,
                 can drive one to
desperation!
or even to the moment of silence.

We all are meant to be free range,
             and now were battery hens,

running out of charge..

I'm so tired
In this cage
Life admired
Can't engage

Wasting away
Pitiful sorrow
Praying today
For life tomorrow

I raise my gaze toward the pale blue sky,
staring out my window as I watch the world go by.
Pale cheek pressed against a ****** hand,
I daydream of travelling across unknown lands.
Fantasy worlds and magic forests tug at the back of my mind,
things that only characters in books could ever really find.
But always stuck in my room, nothing around,
how can I truly know what wonders abound?
To a prisoner, fiction is being free --
something that I know I never will be.
My frail fingers trace the words engraved on the window's wood --
"Your mind will let you be what no one else ever could."
Except how can it really let me live
if life is a present that no one will give?