Icarus

DAY #2 of The Pretty Poem Project.
Today I thought I'd focus on the means in which make me...me. I thought about how I wanted to tell people about how they can...well can't...but can fly (metaphorically, emotionally and physically) and well....oh, for Pete sakes: just read. XP

***

I told you cardboard wings weren't meant to bend and break
Branded in glitter and peacock feathers
You’ve tried to make something of me
But I am a pigeon with unruly crow feathered features.

Even Icarus knew that birds were the keys to the heaven
And he danced on the sky piano
But got burned by the passion
That muses and music make,
Called it the sun and fell into the deep blue ocean
Of your fathers eyes.

Somehow,
Along this journey of blistered feet
We've learned to love.
To love the depth in a deep dish pizza,
And the cheap linoleum floors,
That will always catch us when falling of beds
Pretending we can fly.

Somewhere someone important said something
I can't remember it now,
But it reminded me of this moment in time
Where we looked at the stars and named
The elements of the universe
Dissecting it like the frog it was
Never questioning weather it was a prince or not.
I kissed it and only got warts
But the adventure in my veins was worth it.

I look at you and see an endless amount of possibilities,
Like a never ending story that ranges in 52 chapters, 793 pages.
Still counting.

You are the sister I never had,
The mother I never loved,
The brother I should have listened to
And the face I wake up to every morning
Singing your praise of being able to see this day
To hear this hymn
To touch your hand
And hold it so tight that I cut of your circulation.

I look at you and see an endless amount of potential,
Sitting there in glitter and cardboard box wings
Jumping off rooftops trying to fly to the sky piano.

 We act our age not our pants size,
 And I have grown older then the cosmos,
 As you've stayed consistent in your youth.

 We were never young to begin,
 But I still loved you like a baby.
 Cradled you until you suffocated in this sweet-and-low blanket I like to call arms.

 But now we must realize that the stars are just gas clouds,
 And love is an awkward mangled sound of letters forced on one another
 Like war in my mouth
 It tastes bitter.
 You taste bitter.

 So while I have Plath and Poe to hold me,
 My sweet dear Icarus...
 My father’s eyes were never ocean blue
 And my arms would send you into a diabetic coma,
 So I must let passion and plumage consume you.

 God would have given us wings if we were meant to fly,
 Without you I am grounded.
  But you have taught me to soar.

 Am I making sense?