The Buzzard on the branch
The buzzard on the branch; it knows my name.
It soars and glides in at my darkest times.
Perched on a branch above my head.
It watches and wishes that I was dead.
Waiting and hoping that I will fall.
Staring at me intently, with eyes like a doll.
It knows my thoughts, sees me struggle as I try live on.
It's hoping that I fail to see another dawn.
There were times in my life when it almost got fed.
Times when I felt I was better off dead.
But I found the strength to live another day.
I outsmarted that buzzard without becoming prey.
I don't want to die.