THE CHICK

what time is it when you break out of your shell

and climb into the real dirt in the nest,

mouth wide open begging for worms,

screaming your lungs out

and your momma throws you out of the nest

because you just can't control your urges

to spout truth and lies,

but you continue to sing

because that's all you can do,

 

it's the hour when the sky's just gray enough

to make you question the colors you dreamed,

and your bones are aching from the weight

of unspoken words and half-baked desires.

you claw your way up, feathers sticking

to the muck of yesterday's regrets,

the world a discord of desperate cries,

each one a mirror of your own hunger.

 

you scream, you bellow, you beg for sustenance,

for that slimy, wriggling proof

that life is more than just existing,

that there's something to be had,

something to fill the emptiness

gnawing at your insides.

 

and momma, oh momma, she can't stand the noise,

the raw, unfiltered chaos you bring,

so, she shoves you out, into the abyss,

her eyes a storm of frustration and sorrow,

and you fall, flailing, flapping, failing,

but never silent, never still.

 

the truth and the lies spill out of you

like rain on a tin roof, relentless,

each note a defiant declaration,

a refusal to be muted,

to be molded, to be anything but

a screaming, singing force of nature.

 

and then, oh then, the worm comes,

and you snatch it up, gulp it down,

like it's the last lifeline in a sea of despair,

and in that moment, you are invincible,

a conqueror of your own small world.

 

you spread your wings, unsteady but determined,

and you fly, fly away from the nest,

from the safety of yesterday's lies,

momma's voice a distant echo,

warning you of poisoned berries,

but you don't care, not now,

not ever.

 

because you know, deep in your marrow,

that you're beyond her diet of worms,

that the world is vast and terrible and beautiful,

and your song, your glorious, reckless song,

is the only truth that matters.

 

and the world listens,

each note a needle, a thread,

stitching together the tattered remnants

of dreams and realities,

and they love you for it,

for the raw, untamed beauty of your voice,

for the way you lay bare the world,

each note a testament to the struggle,

the pain, the fleeting moments of grace.

 

you sing because you must,

because the silence is unbearable,

because the world needs your song

as much as you need the air,

the sky, the endless possibilities

of a life lived on the edge,

where truth and lies blur,

and the only thing that matters

is the music you make,

the story you tell

with every ragged, glorious breath.

 

© Richard Gordon Zyne