there is a hummingbird inside my heart

and his heartbeat, is 1000 times a minute

my child, before it’s born

he will be all the things, I’m not

the crowd is waiting for him

to make him, one, with the crowd.

I’ve nurtured my music maker, with bold words

spoken, in a quiet room, alone.

My heroes, are written down

When I find one, they scream off the page

and my heart skips

because they say what needs to be said

and the world makes sense, for a moment.

All the perfect people are looking for their own

they’re beautiful, and cultured, and live expensive lives

so many, who aren’t that, want to be that

and when they become, what they’ve missed

they’ll be fat, rich, chocolate cake-eaters

with raspberry filling on their faces.

the losers, the less fortunate, the underclass

who never reach perfection

live faded lives, or belong to a stratum with different standards

comparing flower tattoos on wrinkled skin

bumming cigarettes

at the barbecue.

I have never wanted to belong

and I watch the crazy ones

who nobody loves

too strange and beautiful to be accepted, like a rainbow rose

a buttoned black shirt, three sizes too large, billowing in the wind

reading a book, on the sidewalk, among Porsche SUVs, and angry Honda Civics

or the genius dancer, who can’t hold a conversation

but grabs a perfect rose, for a moment

and does his jig on the floor, perfectly

so that, she almost approves of him, until he opens his mouth.

from time to time, it’s fun to pretend to be someone else

but most, have become, someone, they’re not

I don’t envy perfect people, unless they are perfect

Clint Eastwood comes to mind

all the rest have to say the right things, and look good

for fear of a bad photograph.

It all comes back to a girl

I suspect she is acting perfect, but her flashes of rebellion make her beautiful to me

she isn’t sure of me

because I don’t dress well, all of the time

and I don’t say the right things, all of the time

and I love “crazy” people, I admire them

and I don’t admire her friends

and when I find myself, talking to her, and the pretty girls see me, talking to her

suddenly, I get friend requests, on Facebook, Instagram, etc.

because I’m not so strange, anymore

because, she has blended in, better than me

and she’s testing me, to see if I can blend in, as good as she can.

Now I have these perfect white shoes

and perfect gym clothes

and my body looks like Adonis

and all the girls in the gym, watch me

and my friend says, “I feel so lucky, just hanging out with you.”

but I feel so lucky, hanging out with him

I find him interesting, and they’re not

“You could have any one of them,” he says, with admiration

but there is nothing to have

that’s the problem with the world, Getting

everyone is Getting

they don’t know about their little bird, inside

begging,

to stay alive.

9 thoughts on “There is a Hummingbird inside My Heart…

  1. I really like this part:

    “the losers, the less fortunate, the underclass

    who never reach perfection

    live faded lives, or belong to a stratum with different standards

    comparing flower tattoos on wrinkled skin

    bumming cigarettes

    at the barbecue.”

    Liked by 1 person

  2. So much packed into this… so many lines I was struck by, that I was still thinking on as I read to the next… so in other words, a lot of good ones. I plan to re-read the whole thing again. One of my favorites was this: they’ll be fat, rich, chocolate cake-eaters. So good. And of course the end: that little bird we know about (well, some of us), who lives inside our hearts. Anyway, nice to have found your writing and I look forward to reading more! 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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