birds were not meant for cages

wipe that smug grin off my face. finally.
because we all know.
happiness is not something that settles in.
not something that stays.
it doesn't matter if i know it'll return.
every uphill comes along with the corresponding down.
at 25, you'd think innocence would have long been experienced away.
but when he put his hand down the back of my skirt
i knew it was still there, a massive part of me.
if i have to write 20 poems about it.
to sort through it. feel okay with it.
then that's what happens.
bushwalkers. people who get lonely traveling.
who saw me coming from a kilometer away.
people are not innocent. no, not men.
they always have some secret plan.
a sports girl calendar hanging in their office.
a young, wwoofing german in their bed.
a tent built for two.
a line they know, eventually, some wayward, lonesome traveler will bite.
you say, 'trust me.' encourage me to push myself.
even with all those people out there - what are you implying? that they'd hear my muffled screaming?
i know better than anyone - i'd never be able to scream.
that is a noise that couldn't escape me.
pink robins in the riverside undergrowth.
reminders. to put on dancing music. the color and light.
no need to get carried away to darker corners of the stream. even the platypus needs air.
do not ever tell me to trust you!
that is earned, not deserved. you build it.
constantly maintain it.
prove it - stop it from crippling! you can't. you won't.
drinks are more important.
and a mother for your desperately needed family.
ANGER.
yes. i see you. from that cobweb filled window.
we both have tin rooves over our heads.
rain to listen to.
endless drops to count.
i know, i'm sorry, that so-called home is much too small for you. when you stretch.
spread those beautiful white wings.
we are all basically alone.
long-billed corella.
metal grates and a single log perch.
what do you think about, locked in that cage all day?