I wrote a book or two, and took a blunt pair of scissors to their pages
I made myself paper wings with feathers of ink and thought
I stood upon the window sill, ready to jump, certain I wouldn't fall.
For a second or two I flew, before I crashed to the ground
my paper wings were useless, they had let me down.
In the wind I followed each feather, determined to try again
I plastered them back together and jumped once more.
It began to rain.
Heavy were the drops that fell, how easily I went down
falling, falling, paper wings crumbling
I crashed into the ground.
My feathers washed away and I watched the ink run
like blood it ran across my skin
I cried so hard to lose my wings.
Never to fly and yet the dream kept me alive
now you're truly gone, I have nothing to hide
shedding my shirt I turn my back to the sky
two harsh scars, the lines of flight
once I had real wings, I used to be able to fly.
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