I'm No Bird

Often I think I don't have it
in me to stick this out, this
unbearable, disabling fate.
Then I look out my window
at the enormous tree that
sits there like a beacon of
light standing straight and
proud in the middle of my
darkness. I turn off my music
and listen to all the birds
in my backyard, singing just
because they're alive,
singing with all their might
before soaring into the blue.
I stroke my sweet kitten
who, like me, didn't ask to
be brought into this world,
but cherishes love and
affection. I'm quite certain
she would simply lay down
and die if she couldn't
find love. I'm beginning to
believe I'm the same. I think
of Anne Frank, Nelson Mandela,
and every other prisoner who
never lost hope. I am a
prisoner, trapped by my
body's own dysfunctions.
I want with all my heart
to keep singing like
the birds, to keep purring
like my cat, to keep hoping.
But try as I might I
can't find love and,
worst of all, I don't
have any freedom
to look forward to.
Only the worsening of it all.
What should keep me
proud and singing and
purring? I am truly sorry
that simply being here is
not enough. As much as I
would like to be, I
am not really a bird.
In the end I'm no bird:
I've got to have a reason
to sing.

(2007)