Rare Bird

Though I've been

divided, I've

decided I won't change for you.

I think that I've

invited {welcomed in} the truth that I

will always reside on the bottom;

and in a world where everybody

(wants to win...)

I believe that makes me

✨odd✨, therein,

and remarkably uncommon.

*

You say you want to hear "a story".

Yes, right before me (through the grapevine) I

have learned you may be

unimpressed by pretty words...

well here's an allegory (if)

you'll sit for me and

[simply listen...]

a tale of how

my voice was heard

>>amid<<

all that sparkles, shines, and glistens;

of how I became {{ok}}

with being

{{odd, absurd, and different}}.

*

Once upon a time

(there was)

a little girl with

messy curls (who)

grew up right beside her

mother's window to the garden;

always outside (never)

inside, she

abided to the cries of

blue jays, larks, and

robins...

and the busy, buzzing bees, amid

their hives (as they)

collected

gathered

garnered all

[[their pollen]].

She always dreamt of being vibrant;

though unlike the

{{socialness of butterflies}} she was

calm and shy and quiet...

-- oh, how she envisioned --

fitting in with all the others by

overcoming her thick silence;

by breaking free

of all the prisons she

succumbed to with

her introverted...

self-inflicted inner violence.

*

Dreams were dreams (you see)

and she would often

oddly talk to violets...

uncommon in a [[tribe of lions]], for

her energy was cotton-soft and

nondefiant;

she was always just a rare bird, (just)

a quiet grouse amid the

vibrant world of robins,

always sticking out (yet)

somehow also always robbed in ways

that stole her thoughts and words,

she was lost in ...

her own caution ...

she was quiet and forgotten.

*

Later on, (as she grew up)

the [wide-eyed pup in her]

began to blur and

fade away ...

she grew a crush on

handsome birds who

hushed her words and would not give

her little heart the time of day.

She was never the most {lovely} ...

(with tasseled hair)

she always felt so fucking

ugly;

just a funny late bloomer (she was)

always caught in / always fascinated by the many

roosters and the jays ...

always dreaming up of ways (that she could)

captivate them all and make

{them hear the words she yearned to say}.

*

Dreams were dreams (you see)

and she would often

romanticize and create...

a kingdom (tucked inside) her mind, where

she had quite the

burning confidence (no sturdy soul) would ever dare to break -

where she was more than just

a rare bird, (not known as just)

an ugly ducking stuck amid the many

lovely swans and all the robins -

never robbed in ways that

stole her thoughts and words,

a place where she was never lost in

her own caution ...

where she wasn't quiet or forgotten.

*

Time did pass (as) time

will do, and as

it did, she inescapably began

to languish ...

the fact that she was still so capably

incapable

of living life without a language.

And that was when she took off running, and

(in her freedom) gained

command with ...

a gallery

(a library)

a menagerie so grand - a Colosseum ...

of phrases and expressions (serving as)

museums and

ascensions for her prose -

and as she learned to speak in Spanish, she

{{began to blossom like a rose}}.

*

Dreams were dreams (you see)

and though she'd gotten

used to living in the shadows...

in Mexico (her footsteps felt) untrodden as

her hollowed sparsity departed and

her artistry arose;

she felt rebuilt (and was now thrilled to be)

a rare bird, **just**

a soul (who) wallowed far from

all the swallows and

the robins ...

still a sore thumb that stuck out

but now just (the slightest bit so) hardened

>>traveled

GROWN;

no longer lost in ...

her own caution ...

always so ***alone*** (but never more)

forgotten.

*

In the end

she wrote herself a

pair of wings (that)

bloomed across the mural of

her soul ...

and with her heart (and with)

her life,

she created a new poetry

(that helped her find her coterie)

and allowed her lovely petals to

unfold.

Clarity became her

second nature (and she)

favored vivid imagery and especially odd prose ...

she spared herself [a misery] within -

by avoiding being something different

**just to win** ....

she was a rarity

(she dared to be)

and she was now complete

and whole.

*

Dreams were always

DREAMS (you see)

and in her past, she'd often

question who she was (and she would be)

uncertain of her role.

Always wanting all the common ears

to listen... (now she)

does not care too much about tradition,

(about)

anyone's opinion (for she's)

DIFFERENT, she's

deliberate with the language of

{{her soul}}.

And while [they who judge me] may

believe my blossomed fruit

is rotten ...

to completely change me would

dilute the labor of (my love) and make me common;

and in a world where all my words

have fought in countless acres upon acres

to be finally. fucking. heard ...

why on Earth would I

want to be another

blue jay bird

or robin?

I may be rare but

be it may

what it may be, and when I'm gone

this will be what's left of me -

(it's fine with me ...)

for even if I [[never win]]

I am different, not

forgotten.

*

-Gina C. 🧚‍♀️✨

Author's Note: Be true to yourself and the language that speaks to you. I think we get caught up in trying to figure out the "secret" to winning these challenges. I, too, have often asked myself how I can change my work to perhaps better fit what the judges are looking for.

It took me a long time to establish a form of communication where I feel confident expressing myself. My unique style of poetry is a reflection of how I learned to feel beautiful - which was a very long and complicated journey.

Call me a "rare bird", but why would I change this? If valuing my authenticity over changing myself to win makes me strange... then so be it!

While I'd truly love to win someday - and would feel incredibly honored if I did - I'd want it to be for something that was 100%, authentically me - not for something that I altered just to appeal to someone's taste.

My story is rare and my art is odd. I'm owning it. I do not want to exist in a world where I must sacrifice one for the other - for doing so would diminish the voice that took me so long to find.

I will find my people. I do believe this.

***

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