Gilded

uncomfortably sinking in passive aggression,
uncarefully uttering the first words thought,
pouring salt into already seasoned wounds,
it's like reading the story before the book is bought,
mixing up metaphors grasping for direction,
flipping the light switch just to hear it snap,
pretty birds in such a gilded cage,
see now how you've built your own trap,
you wrap up your sadness in a blanket of fear,
like a mother not wanting to hear a cry,
silly little pretty birds the door is open,
but not for you who are afraid to fly.
~d.dent


p.s. poets don't have to use proper punctuation...ha it's art

p.p.s. if i haven't said before, all of my poetry is mine, don't hijack it, just ask, copyright crackola 07