A Journal Topic from One of My Disciples

I am my own bluebird,
my own innards colliding
in the universal nothing.

I am such a minute bird,

Such a slight sensation
in such an exuberant
emoticon-filled world.

My bluebird is worn
like my babushka dolls
that infinitely reveal
my being.

My wings are not clipped,
and sometimes, Jane Eyre,
I do not feel as though
I am a free human being
with an independent will.

My bluebird inflating
inside of me like
so much integrity.

Epidermis and pores
like electoral votes,
I am covered
by the blanket of society,
by the blanket of democracy,

Bluebird weeping below
the surface like Bukowski’s
never will.