We have gained the right to be free. No matter what. This poem is about that freedom. (repost from another site)
Flight of the Painted Bird
From the time Robin was twelve or so
this masterpiece was his aim;
feathers collected and painted became
His hobby, his life, his game.
Only the white feathers he chose
from birds he never saw
he painted them colors of the sun
of the butterfly and macaw.
Glue held them to the wall of his room
brilliant blue and red and green
They shimmered in the evening light
in a room no one had seen.
He kept to himself since that terrible time
when his father called him that name
Hidden from the world he didnít know
From unspoken shame.
His mother drank and left him alone
Teachers gave him up long ago
He spent his days painting his feathers
until he felt it was time to go.
He stood naked in front of the wall
and saw in the mirror reflected
a stunning sight, he told himself
someone who would never be rejected.
When the last feather dried and was glued in place
He gazed triumphantly at his feat
The colors bold and beautiful
made his next goal feel so sweet.
He removed his clothes and stood
before the painted bird
then hung himself with a nylon rope
before his mother heard.
They whispered for years about him
Fag, queer and worse
His mother burned the feathers
before his body left in the hearse.
The wind rustles now and then
blowing a feather free
and far away where the painted birds fly
look at me! look at me!