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Words and phrases I've been longing to rhyme,
For fifteen years, from birth to this time.
About losses to gain,
From pressure to pain,
A silent mockingbird yearning to fly out of its cage.
A roaring beast raring to rip these iron bars out in rage,
A lonely boy finding salvation in the next page,
Wishing he had powers like that of the ancient sage,
Who is still strong, still fighting, despite his old age.

Because reality is too ugly a picture to paint
With the imagery of words, so we wait
Until a suitable drawing comes to our minds,
After each fantasy, there are more of all kinds.

These iron bars are what I call my home,
Rusting away after a number of years unknown.
So I draw with words new images galore.
A motion picture forms in my head,
I leap to my feet right out of bed,
And I shatter my bedroom window and fly away.

And the mockingbird sings once more.

Only to wake up from his beautiful dream,
Forced to endure through reality's scream,
And false accusations
Of poor articulations,
Yet clear enough to shut the mockingbird up.

Society is too biased to recognize
That he's a free spirit, in his cage he cries,
Unwilling to sing,
Because he won't bring
His music into the reality it doesn't belong,
The reality that doesn't fit with the beauty of song.

Ironic, actually, now I think of it today.
A Catholic home, but heaven couldn't be father away.
Except when it's found in my dreams,
But it's not solid enough to walk on.
At this realization the fabric of fantasy rips apart from the seams.

Every time he his let out of his prison,
It's like being born again, he's ready for living.
He takes flight, singing merrily like he wore England's crown.
But wait -- his tether loses slack and he comes straight down.

And the mockingbird stopped making a sound.

So close to freedom, he can still taste it,
Like a sweet treat inches from his lips.
Only to be taken away as an unjust consequence,
As if trying to be rid of these chains is criminal and requires punishment.

To stop him from flying, they pinned down his wings.
To be rid of his confidence, they bellowed horrible things.
None of which were true, but they got to his head.
This mockingbird can't take flight; he wishes he was dead.

If wishes were stars, there'd be no room left for night.
Broken dreams tossed aside, it's just not right.
Look in his eyes, he's not whining, he's not complaining,
He's begging for a away out.
Free spirits exist to fly; it's all they dream about.

He draws another picture in his head.
Much more beautiful than reality, enough said.
Don't intrude, stop asking him what's within those pages.
Because mockingbirds don't sing in cages.

And this mockingbird won't sing until he's free.
When that iron bar door finally opens for me,
I will fly away and as I soar I sing once more.
I disappear over the horizon, singing like I never had before.