untitled (for now)

when i read to the birds
the words that i wrote
they humble me
with one single note

and when i write in the book
the words that i think
it humbles and takes me
down from the brink

without these books
and their words and those birds
there wouldn't be speech
nor things to be heard
and without our fears
and worries and doubts
there'd be none else to do
but have our heads in the clouds

and without him
and then her and them too
there would be no us
no me and no you
there would be no up
there would be no down
there would be no circus
full of very funny clowns

without these jokes
and lyrics and poems
there would be no dreams 
and we could not hold them
without this art
pain that may feel so inhumane
there would be no beauty
no songs to be sang

it's the oldest of mysteries
how something so cruel
could be what makes us
makes me me, 
and you you

and so that's what i turn to
alone in my bed
when i'm stuck thinking
my own voice in my own head
"am i even human?
she asks, as i turn rather red
"of course!" i respond
what could we be instead?

what could i possibly be
with all that i feel
what could i be 
except  glimpse, into a flashback reel

a video full
of birds and and books and songs
and laughter and tears
and everything we brought along
of notes that we sang
so far off key
and edgy little poems
after all,
it's what made me, me