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Woe, Is Me.

This one particular man stands
as prolific in my mind. Something about
how the wild bird doesn't feel sorry for itself
even in its frozen state. How secretly a
broken wing challenges the raw Rocky-esque like stature
the creature has. Screaming Adriiaaannnn!!!! with blackened eyes
and sweat glistening from silken feathers.
I don't know if I believe in such things. Here. Now.
Sitting in chronic pain, barely able to move
injured disks that stab burn stink in prolific
meanderings. I mean, who can call their self an
orange fiery flamed bird,
beaten down by life and spit out in graves,
turned to ash only to rise again?
I am not that bird. That quiet, beaked, songstress.
Attempting to flutter bloodied bashing's
against a steel cage, minuscule perforations of
seed scattered unto the recreated soil that
can't fool earth.
Self pity. Woe is me. The woe
is me
framed in photographs where flight
leaves the orbs of my eyes and sadness
is recollected in memories when one
revisits them.
He says
"I never saw a wild thing feel sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever feeling sorry for itself."
and it reverberates in me. Somehow, some way
a small inkling of what life used to be like
moves tendons. Muscles and bones more. Each swift
gallant step, a slap in the face for naysayers and dream slayers
pitted against white flow sheets and
firm doctoral diagnoses.
And here,
fallen from the nest on a cold cryptic perched tree
the phoenix rises again
ashes screaming
fuck pity.

Poem 20 of 30, April 2012
Thank you, David Herbert Richards Lawrence. "Self Pity" poem italicized.

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