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.