Chicken In A Tree

I hatched from an egg

And like any chicken would, I grew

Slowly, at first, as I tried to pave my way

And sluggishly adapt to what I would, for the next eighteen years, call home

But as I grew, it occurred to me that I was seeing myself becoming more of a tree, at least physically

And that I was trapped inside my mind and that chicken that hatched from the egg

It no longer felt real, at least not for my sky-high size

Because everything seemed so different

When you’re a kid you don’t surround yourself with the notion of growing because you’re so close to the ground

But now, at eighteen you look down and on the ground you see your feet

You don’t have to crouch or duck in the car to avoid the sunlight

Yet to avoid running into doorways you do

And that’s what makes you

But that’s not me

Because I am a boy, when I am a writer or a poet

My concerns don’t seem as legitimate

Because you don’t understand

I don’t crouch from doorways but I crouch from people

And still fall flat on my face because my brain and my feet don’t meet in conjunction at the stoplight

So now

I’m this high up in the air

And I’m ba-kawking away, but you can’t hear me

And those who see me point me out

Pull out their phones

Tweet about me, the chicken in the tree

And what they don’t understand is that even though I’m not a full-fledged rooster

And I cannot make my tree go away to become my body

I love it

Because none of them knows what it feels like to be so high up

Because all of the other chickens have fought to be the top cock

And they all think I shied away

But I can see more clearly and far-away than they can ever imagine

I’m not focused on the tree beneath or controlling it to be like everyone else

And I’m not grown

I’m a child

Still getting sick at the swings and the merry-go-round and the slides that I cannot fit into

While they tap tap tap away at their seed

And get sucked deep into a world where I am ostracized

But you

Don’t

Notice

That

I live inside a thundercloud that zaps me into the mindset

That I am not enough

That my cock-a-doodle-doo won’t bring sunrise

And that even though I like to sing

I can’t

Bye

The most common comment I hear that I’ll never get used to hearing

And up so high in this tree, I’m free to sing or bubble myself or jump down and attempt to fly

And they don’t control that

The sky doesn’t control that

The ground doesn’t control that

I, the chicken, control that

And for everything it’s worth

And for all I’ve attempted to be

For every time I’ve tried to squawk

Or fly

Or move around the other hens and cocks and free spirits

I love me

Unable to control myself

Unable to control my tongue or my breathe

The only person who would think of my body as its own sentient being

Because I am me

The chicken in the tree