If I had wings, my feet would never touch down.
I could soar high with the birds,
coast lazily on the breeze.
Upon golden wings I'd fly,
a shooting star to those below.
Up in the clouds,
just the blue sky and I.
But lately I realized my real reason to fly.
It has nothing to do with the beauty, the sun, the air.
With great wings, I can envelop myself and hide from the world.
With great wings, I can flee from the troubles of the world.
With great wings, I don't have to be afraid of falling.