a silent laugh—
an inside joke no one else can catch,
trying to take flight over the height of a dream.
but what is a dream if it only stings the eyes?
an eye sore, instead of wings to soar.

...I am a prisoner of flesh and skeleton,
fueled by passion, smuggling scars beneath
my skin; blood turned ammunition,
bones as empty shells clattering the floor.

...I am animal, and I am engine—
factory default, released into a world
obsessed with modifications.
we bolt wings like spoilers onto cars,
spoiled for choice, but never to lift—
only to weigh us down.
heavy disguises, dressed up as flight.

and still, we dream of air.
still, we hunger to rise.
such a cruel irony:
built for motion, yet forever
grounded.

My hand's freezing  
and out of dried blue veins
and long violet veins in my slender wrists,

My iris' whitening as snow as shaping  a diamond on its own,
Yet my heart's still beating its dried pains that wouldst heal anymore,

Becease someday I'll die,
my divine Lord,
beyond the summer vivid's smokes turned into winter.

Beyond an angel crying beautifully on my grave.
When I pass away,
put an angel on my grave,
Lest the vines overflow,
coverin' my headstone.

Place me somewhere in the night-nyx with silent air  
and glowy cold smokes,
Surrounded by hazel trees,
to my corpse can slowly wither away

As if I once was a faded memory,  Someday, thou can visit me on my grave with a smile peacefully without saying goodbye.

— candychristian, 1968

Cage, cage..
  Set me free..
    And let me fly..

My wings are tied;
   When am in cage..
My dreams are shattered;
   When my boundaries are confined..

Cage, cage..
  My world is vast..
Let me spread,
    my wings of sky;
   With bountiful sweet,
       mercy of life..

Cage, cage..
  My life is not cage..
Let me breathe;
  Let me fly,
     to this limitless sky 🌌
    
Cage cage
  My life is in turmoil..
Let my fire of quest;
          turn to an eternal soul.. 🫰

Crush cut **** flip
**** guns **** kids
Sharp knife dig into the blood honey spread thick

It’s a mode it’s a *** shoot show it’s a stitch
Everyone will grow in his heavenly dome ring

You’re already less eternal than I...
By killing a kid in the blink of an eye
I don’t need to believe in a heaven you see,
I just feel the breeze in the arms of the trees

You’re a smudge on a page
A pen that’s exploded
Not like the kids who’s blood will be moulded

What will you do when your wind-up stops working?
Your teddy bear lurking– its eyes can’t be fixed
It’s too late now, you’re trapped in this -
Where muddy roots mutate your tapestry wings...

For a moment I thought
it was a butterfly,
the yellow and orange leaf
that took flight from the swishing poplar tree
across my balcony.

It swayed and fluttered in excitement –
here and there, up and down,
undecided if right or left,
to the ground or up to the sky –
Should I stay or should I go?

What to make of perceived options
when you lose your wings to know
that gravity always wins?
And ultimately to the ground
with or without wings.

How can I have loans to pay,
when i can't even find a way,
to keep my guts from spilling out?

How can I save each bug,
So many small holes dug,
Where do I get little gravestones?

What is this feeling in my stomach?
The butterflies flutter nonstop—I can hear their wings beating beneath my skin.
I feel them shift from side to side,
Claiming what little remains of me.

What is it?
What is this bitter taste rising through my throat, resting on my tongue?
Why can’t I hear the butterflies anymore?
Why do I still feel this?

My mouth opens, and all I spit is blood and glass.
The sour bile of what the butterflies once were grows thick—and I can do nothing.
“Spit them out, regurgitate them, let them go!”
I can’t.

I press my chest, and slowly my arms bind themselves around my belly,
Cradle of cutting kisses—kisses that now hurt,
And no longer heal the way they used to.

I rise from mourning, only to fall again, and the butterflies begin to flutter once more,
But they no longer beat like drums or echo like thunder.
They don’t crash against my walls or hide in my corners…
They are there, but not alive.

They try to climb.
I feel them fighting each other, pushing for space up my esophagus—
Once a path for all things good,
Now a tunnel for all things painful.
I hear them scream; their tiny voices pierce my eardrums and shake my bones.

They want out.

And I understand them well:
What good is a body that dances among broken hearts?
What use are shards beneath my feet,
Reminding me how little I’ve felt?
What comfort is the weeping of a soul grown weary?
What joy lies in the bottomless hollow of a body fed by illusions?
They were made for the sun—for joy, for love—
And all I can offer is an umbrella
For the relentless rain storming inside me.
Cold, decaying rain that stains the walls and soils my shoes, instead of washing them clean.

They’re almost free—
About to escape.
But I swallow them down once more,
Just as I’ve swallowed the bile of melancholy,
Just as I’ve swallowed the tears that swore, they would soften the blades of my sharp-edged heart.

I feel them sink slowly,
Their wings now still—they’ve accepted their fate.
I don’t want to let them go,
Because they’re all I have left.
They’re all I have of what once was pain.
They’re all I have of what once was passion…

They’re all I have of what once was love.

Though the world feels too small
but my wings still can't fathom all
The northern air sways right
but my body refuses
to lift my soul.
Shall I leave my fate
to the wind beneath
or take the plunge
in the ocean's fall.