We all try to get through life without any scars,
Carefully tip-toeing around sharp rocks and corners.
We're scared of taking chances,
of breaking ourselves,
and causing ourselves pain.
But we bring all of it on ourselves
We are thorn birds
and we make ourselves suffer.
We go through life
Perched on trees,
Indulging in an abundance of worms,
Pecking at the grass,
and flying high, where only the sky is the limit.
We go through our migration
Thinking the journey will never end
but it comes to a point
Where flying in the skies alone
and perching on branches in the silence,
no chirping,
staring at the unattainable
becomes torturous
to the point that we welcome the thought of pain
and as we sit on trees and stare below
we remember those thorns on the branches
and slowly step on top, letting the blood spill,
killing ourselves,
slowly but surely,
through the pain that drags on
until everything goes black.