Vigil: They say let the caged bird sing her heart out maybe that's only way she'll ever be free. I'v come close to being loved once, just not quite it was one of those sudden romances with long nights. It gave me goosebumps but she didn't jump she was afraid of flying, on top of that she was really reliant besides, I was an ugly duckling poking a stick at the sleeping giant. But for a while, we were at the brink on the same plank I thought we knew what love brings cause we discussed things on stuff until we would sink in our think-tanks. We had real talk, like fuck trust rings plus bling just rusts & we had no time to be dusting cufflinks. But I held her loose feathers too closely under my arms all along I was hurting her, thinkin I was protecting her from harm and I was too busy picking the lock to hear the alarm. Kept her in a pigeon hold with no holes to go through so it was long over due that in time she would fold in two and I was too strong for her to . start breaking free. Her colors were changing and it was time to rake the leeves. Spring was over, the time came to cut her her strings cupid was the buzz kill and I found out love stings. She flew away broken-hearted with dove wings, and it strucked me then, I learned the caged bird must sing. Left stranded, I reached out empty-handed with nothing to give but she did a u-turn, and it turned out she didn't want to live . . She told me she fled to her mom's but I found her with red palms She travelled on the off-road, and now she's dead, gone. And I'm left singing the swan song using her suicide notes. She tried to sing freedom songs with the voice of reason, and got lost in the void within the same one she avoid believing in. These are all the things hopelessness brings proving you can't spread love with broken wings. topic:“Don't bother trying to find her, She's not there” ===========================VS.=========================== RIKOSHAY: I was RIKOSHAY. The one with the enchanted, sweet touch with words. I, ran the scene undisturbed, single handedly crushing herds of challengers that came calling. I answered each one in search of a foe worthy of dealing me my first grand defeat; none emerged. So, I griped about how “Being the champ has become a curse.” “I can’t outdo myself every time I write. The ante keeps upping worse.” Gave myself an out-clause as part of my plan to refund the purse should some F l o o k finally manage to banish me from my perch. Can it be? Buzz alert! Quick! Check the news! Channel 3, what occurred? Did the world’s population just witness the planet erupt and burn? Nope. I lost one match, scandal free, just deserts, and only a few dozen texcees noticed my fantasy bubble burst. I am RIKOSHAY. The one whose wife won’t wait until the man in me comes to terms with the fact that: the internet is like a cult that won’t grant release from it’s church. I can’t withstand the destructive urge to prove myself to faceless names when they’re all emphatically unconcerned. I do believe my way with words is a gift. I’ve practically hugged a verse. But fear freezes my advancement and apathy numbs the nerves. I’m overwhelmed with a gift I didn’t ask for, it’s drastically undeserved. We’ve all heard the tale of how a gift granted becomes a curse. But clichés only become clichés because they’re true and, the truth is, I’ll never be an M.C. and that’s the tragedy of the curse because I’m still trying to live the fragile dreams some defer.