bad poem #1

i want to be a bird.
not right this second.
i don’t want to die.
but i wish i could fly.
i don’t want to hang glide, or para sail, or skydive.
i just want to be a bird.
nothing comes quite close.
nothing like the feel of the air under your wings,
making lazy circles on warm gusts of wind.
no map to follow, just your own whims.
nothing i know comes close.
except my favorite pen, paper and my mind.
my favorite pen has a clicker at the end that feels good.
a nubby end that i have to push hard on to release.
the body of the pen is sturdy with a rubbery grip.
and the tip is sublime, like a fine cabernet wine.
paper can be almost anything, lined or not.
it’s my mind that matters more than a jot.
clear, clean, empty and serene.
a void, a hole through which my pen explores.
it’s the nearest thing to heaven.
a bird, a pen, and me.

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