the bluebird in my heart

Quite often I wake up with my eyes numb,

faltering to open. Eyelids so moist with tears that their essence could sprout Jack's beanstalks, which reached up to the heavens. It's not that the ciliary muscles stop responding; it's the inner voice that succumbs to the human's sorrow within. The social paradigm begets you infinite masks, they say, and with time, if you end up mastering all of them equivocally - you become a king of the rapacious world. But through the relentless pursuit of pushing my grasps and wearing masks, I... lost track... of my original face, which came with my birth. Now, when I speak to the gentle chirp within, I wonder -

Is this my true self, or have I again worn a mask on my skin?

___________________________________

there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there,
I’m not going to let anybody see you.

. . .

there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him
and inhale cigarette smoke
and the whores
and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that he’s in there.

. . .

there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay down,
do you want to mess me up?
you want to screw up the works?
you want to blow up semblance within?

. . .

there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I’m too clever,
I only let him out at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say,
I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad.

. . .

then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little in there,
I haven’t quite let him die
and we sleep together like that
with our secret pact
and it’s nice enough to make a man weep,
but I don’t weep, do you?

- Charles Bukowski