I have to write a poem.

I'm sure you all already know.

I didn’t know what to write,

or what to say.

My parents exclaim “just write about a pajaro azul, it was sitting on the tree.”

But they forgot to mention if it’s real, or fake.

How much of a difference can this make, you say?

I could say el pajaro flew from tree to branch finding a home for it’s nest.

That the pajaro de plastico was as real, as my emotions.

That the pajaro vivo,

was something I could never be.

El pájaro de plástico was me.

I am el pájaro de plástico azul.

I spread my wings, colors that turned dull over the years,

No longer the bright blue,

The blue you find in a lost ocean.

The blue that has me drowning inside.

My parents, the colorful birds, always outshine the sun,

while I am sinking,

                            falling,

to my own death.

Wings, as big as the sky; but I still don’t know how to fly.

I have no use for flight.

The only right thing about me,

Is that

I'm blue.